Gods and Monsters
by BigMamaThornton
Summary: In the time it took us to blink, we missed so many things. Fleshing out those moments when our eyes were closed. H/R, somewhat AU, I don't own them, I just play with them. All series characters owned by KUDOS, and may/may not make an appearance. Just a little something I wish they had fleshed out a bit more….
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first SPOOKS/MI5 fanfic, so a little background seems in order. I came late to the party for SPOOKS, and am bereft to find that NETFLIX will stop streaming all ten seasons on February 1, 2015. Nevertheless, I have spent countess hours watching the shortened US versions, scouring chat rooms and fanfic sites, and must confess to a rather frightening obsession with Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed. Thank you BBC for that addiction. While I do not possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the show, I have been fascinated enough to venture back into the realm of writing fanfiction. In this, I hope to explore the darker aspects of Harry's affection for Ruth, that somewhat unrealistic sainthood attributed to her, and pursue the idea that, as stated by Peter Firth himself, Harry takes unfair advantage of Ruth's vulnerability. Personally, I'll admit to feeling entirely screwed with Ruth's death, and resent the idea that the audience can watch, even embrace, Adam and Ros love scenes, while a Ruth and Harry love scene was somehow not in the cards. Furthermore, I remain irritated every time Adam watches Ros via computer, post "death," but Harry is not allowed the same suggestion of devotion after Ruth's exile. Rant over, but, seriously, just please. Shout out to all of you who continue to write because, even with the dismal series ending, they must have done something right in the end, no?**

_"__In the Land of Gods and Monsters,_

_I was an Angel,_

_Livin' in the Garden of Evil..."_

_-_Lana Del Rey, Gods and Monsters

**GODS and MONSTERS**

Chapter One

She loathed these yearly exercises. Refresher training courses that made her feel inadequate in a way that she found difficult to recover from emotionally. That she was a desk spook was irrelevant, and Ruth found the exercises as humiliating as they were yet another moment for her to shine as, somehow, less than, deficient, different, brainy rather than sexy, introverted versus enticing.

Because they are mutually exclusive, of course.

Well, maybe just for her.

One of her professors, early on at Uni, once told her that she was an old soul, a deep roller, one who is so frighteningly perceptive that she was rather intimidating in intelligence. Which, at the time, she understood to mean off-putting, unattractive, even sexless, one lonely soul without the needs of her fellow souls...connection, tenderness, love...complete in her intellectual solitude.

Gazing at her reflection, she evaluates her appearance. The long skirt is...long, and despite it's soft, silky fabric, it effectively removes even the merest hint of her legs or bum, prudishly concealing their shape and form from anyone glancing her way. And her shirt is not the least bit coordinated, a slapdash selection with long, loose sleeves, plain in color, shapeless in form, her one concession to what anyone could loosely categorize as _fashion_, a necklace with an eclectic collection of charms, trinkets, but costume jewelry, nevertheless.

She remembers her mother's attention to her appearance, and as a doctor's wife, Ruth rationalizes that her attention to detail in that regard was rather to be expected, and not entirely a tendency towards self-absorbed superficiality. Maybe no, maybe yes. Either way, her mother had beautiful legs, enhanced by modest knee length pencil skirts and sensible, yet attractive pumps. Her father loved her mother's legs, shapely, decidedly feminine, everything about her screamed femininity, woman. Everything about Ruth screams inhibition, rolling deep, on her own, yearning from a shadowy corner, waiting for someone to notice, for someone to unlock her, the woman underneath the layers, hiding, vulnerable and wanting, so much so she aches, the deep throb of it as familiar as breathing to her over the years.

"You're no Coco Channel, " she sighs and resolves herself to failure, as she has every year since her secondment to the grid two years ago.

Why is it that the DG and Home Offices insist on acting as though every desk spook is just waiting for the opportunity to jump into the field? Is there some unreasonable, unfounded fear that the active female field agents are somehow diminishing in numbers? Or, they've decided, en masse, that the Honey trap is somehow an unsavory reflection of the service's misogynist streak? Truth be told, aside from herself, Ruth has yet to meet a female colleague who doesn't, in some form or fashion, enjoy baiting a honey trap, the ego boost and feeling of sexual control over the male species, and on very rare occasions, female, proving to be highly tantalizing, seductive. Within the annals of past female agents, there are legends still spoken of in hushed tones, with admiration and awe. Never mind that, if she's being honest, she _is_ just waiting to jump into the field, and she, when given the opportunity, on a very limited basis, has proven to perform...adequately. But a legend, Ruth understands, she was never meant to be. At least not a Honey Trapping legend. No, her legendary status is firmly and actively cemented as an analyst, perhaps the best the service has yet seen. If there were another category reserved for Ruth Evershed, it would likely be her legendary failures as a honey trap.

Still, she knows she is not a trained, _experienced_ field agent. She_ knows_ this. She is not in need of the yearly reminders these exercises force on her, leaving her empty, gut punched and nervous. Every time she enters the field, leaves the security of the grid, her desk, her contacts, her _routine_, limited occasions they may be, someone tries to kill her. _Every time. _No exaggeration, there, but simple, proven fact. If Zaf were running a book on how long it takes for "Operations Involving Ruth in the Field Going Tits Up," she wouldn't be surprised. She is, in fact, already painfully aware of the book on how long this year's honey trap with take her to bring to a successful conclusion, and no one is foolish enough to bank on one hour. She's not Jo, beautiful, strong, a doe-eyed deer released amongst the wolves. Or Fiona, an exotic pixie, so sexually confident she currently holds the record for fastest trap completion. And Ros. Ruth is hard pressed to define the collection of characteristics and attributes that makes Ros, well, _Ros_, and perhaps it's simply enough to conclude that Ros is successful because she _is_ Ros, a species unto herself. But these colleagues are all field agents, the top in their shared field. It is doing herself a disservice to compare herself to them.

But she can't ignore Sam, and in the comparison, Ruth is left wanting, diminished, her quiet, shy demeanor all but eclipsed by Sam's effervescence, her robust lust for life, her vim and verve. And her success rate, year after year, rivals some inasmuch as Ruth's continues to astound in it's blatant ineptitude.

_And_, never one to refrain from inflicting the most negative of self-depreciations, Ruth muses on the newest development; Sam is no longer required to participate as an expectation of continued employment by the services. "She's a proven commodity," Juliet announced earlier. "Her talents are multifaceted, and as such, is excused as her success rate indicates practice to be superfluous for this exercise."

"As for you, Ruth, well it seems..."

Juliet droned on, ticking off, in detail, the numerous reasons for which she was not excused, and likely, she hinted, never would be. Ruth had the fleeting vision of Juliet, snuggled on her couch, whiskey in hand, tears running down her face as she laughs at the recordings of her two previous failed attempts, provided no doubt by some eager GCHQ foundling, promised a secondment over to Thames, who has little understanding that Juliet is nothing if not a self-promoting, borderline sociopath in nature and personality. Having thus been successfully manipulated, said foundling has already doomed their chances at the promised secondment. Not trustworthy with anything more than a black market dvd of one analysts' inability to do what any red-blooded woman on Earth is capable of, pull or be pulled from a pub.

She was acutely aware of several pairs of eyes on her, her face flushing in both frustration and humiliation, and couldn't bear the thought that everyone was, at that very moment, devising a means to avoid having to be the one saddled with overseeing her portion of the exercise, knowing all along that it would be Malcolm who would volunteer, because it was always Malcolm who sat through the hours it took until, concluding with a soft whisper in her ear, "That's done now, Ruth." So gentle and quiet, his words washing over her, releasing her from the task, allowing her to escape back to the grid, back into herself, back to solitude and safety, having failed to pull her assigned target.

She supposes that if she doesn't pull this off a third year in a row, that The Powers That Be will instruct Juliet to demand she return not only her spy card, but her woman card, as well. And perhaps that is why Juliet insists that Ruth continue, despite her lack of progress and mastery, as Ruth has long suspected that Juliet would love nothing more than to transfer Ruth back to GCHQ, exile her to Cheltenham, humiliation her weapon, and, Ruth firmly believes, Harry Pearce her trophy.

They had been lovers, torrid and passionate, matched well in ruthlessness, skill, biting wit and fearless courage. Gossip of their past, their numerous couplings despite marriages, their heated and sometimes violent disagreements, both public and private, color her mind every time Ruth is forced to interact with Juliet, causing a knot in her stomach she'd rather not contemplate, and a hopeless, wanting ache for the man she can't stop herself from contemplating.

"I'm going to need your measurements, Ruth. And your shoe size, " Juliet continues, visibly impatient, waiting, expecting Ruth to simply provide this information immediately, regardless of their audience. She can feel her face heating further under scrutiny, though to their credit, all but Juliet appear to be concentrating at the table in front of them. Only Jo quickly captures Ruth's eye, offering a slight smile of encouragement, understanding intuitively how very painful this entire meeting has been for her, before looking down at her notepad in front of her.

"Yes, um, I can get those to you once we've adjourned," Ruth begins but is quickly overruled.

"Now. Please." And the _please_, while presumably an attempt at being polite, is nevertheless, an afterthought. This is a demand, an immediate demand, and Ruth tries valiantly not to whither before her boss' boss, while providing her personal details.

"36-29-34," she breathes, hesitantly, but manages to maintain eye contact, secretly knowing it is a deliberate act on her part to avoid gauging reactions and discomfort emanating from those present around her. She doesn't see, but rather feels Harry adjust in his chair, beginning to drum his fingers on the table before him, whether from boredom, frustration, _interest_ she could not, dare not guess.

"Hourglass, are we Ruth? Who would have known. And shoe size?" Her eyes sharpening, an infinitesimal shift, knowing the thinly veiled insult had struck home, and Ruth is certain that Juliet is deriving a great deal of pleasure from this entire interaction, not simply because she can't seem to control her mouth's need to curl slightly with every cutting comment, but because this all could have been handled without the entire team being present, in Harry's office, just the three of them. And every single person present knows this, there is no doubt on that score.

Though, truth be told, she knows that she would have had just as much difficulty discussing this, being subject to this, with only Harry to observe. In fact, if she's honest, it quite possibly would have been worse. If she wanted Harry to know her measurements, then she would tell him herself, even better, let him know them by experience, his hands feeling their way around her flesh, her curves, the soft and pliable places she hides from everyone, but would, if given the chance, if possessing the courage, reveal to him, for him, to do with what he wishes, to touch, caress, lick...

_Blood hell_...

"I'm sorry, Juliet, what did you-"

"_Shoe_. _Size_. Please, Ruth, make an effort to keep up as we need to move this along at something rather faster than a glacial pace, dear," tilting her head to one side, eyebrow slightly raised, challenging a lesser animal, daring her to take issue.

"Seven and a half." And Ruth uncharacteristically decides to take the bait.

"May I ask why this is necessary? I've not had to...before we just went to the assigned pub and...performed, um, as expected..." the last verbal stumble betraying to all Ruth's vulnerability and exposure. She took comfort in the sideways glance towards her from Ros who, upon catching her eye, nodded in her direction, a discrete offer of support in Ruth choosing to question Juliet's intentions rather than remain mute, curled within herself, waiting impassively for whatever was to come.

"Yes, well, I think we can all agree that some of us performed as expected better than others, eh Ruth? And this exerci-"

"And then some of us would have the good taste not to mention it at all. Guess that's down to breeding...some of us have it." Smiling sweetly, Ros casually crosses her legs, her attention on Juliet, penetrating, and to Ruth's eyes, as deliberately provoking as unnerving. Beside her, Harry begins to strum his fingertips lightly again, and Zaf barely conceals his amusement, placing his hand over his mouth to contain his smile, though the crinkles by his eyes rather give him away.

Ruth would have hugged them all, but chose instead to bestow Ros a cautious smile, delicate and tentative, her eyes full of appreciation, never expecting she would prove willing to stand up for her, a mouse, weak and overly cautious.

And Ros, for her part, regards Ruth with equal caution, knowing that without her quiet guidance, her moral objections, more than a few of them would be lost, regardless of how annoyingly frequent those moral objections come to the fore, oftentimes undermining and distracting those same colleagues from the end game they play in the course of a work day. At cross purposes they may often find themselves, but Ros wasn't about to watch Juliet continue to dissect, with deliberate and painful precision, the psyche of a valued member of her team.

"This exercise, as I was saying, will be conducted within an active operation. In fact, your current active operation. We're thinking, " pausing, placing her index finger on her bottom lip while looking up, searching for the words, the phrase which would best suit, best harm and maim, refusing to take the bait Ros placed before her, "Well, that the lack of motivation is the problem. Specifically, Ruth's problem. And we believe, no, we _know_ that a person of Ruth's superior focus, her attention to detail, her _intellect_," pronouncing the word with as much distaste as one reserves for pedophilia, "Needs motivations beyond a game, beyond fake exercises and routines."

"Ah, the royal we is it?" Speaking in a low voice, and to those attune to it, forecasting Harry's potential, brimming volatility.

"Amazing what those that sit comfortably behind desks, enjoying the security we provide them, can come up with." His focus on Juliet, eyes narrowed, prepared to spar and scar, if needs must. "The mind simply reels with awe, such a finely tuned machine the collective _We_ are. However would the lesser of us manage without your finely tuned minds?"

"Hope that you never have to find out, Harry. Might I remind you that it is at _our_ pleasure that _you_ serve." Her chin at an upward angle, looking down her nose at Harry, his face the very picture of control, calm and collected. Casual in it's mockery of her. _Harry Bloody Pearce. _

"And may I remind you, _Juliet_, that it is at Her Majesty's pleasure, as well. Let us also not forget, while we trip down memory lane, that I am one of a very select few that knows where the bodies are hidden. Even a few of yours."

"That...threat, Harry, is beginning to wear thin," the uncertainty in her eyes belying the smile masking her face. _I still want this man, this bloody fucking man, who made me cry out, who made me wet just by looking at me._

"If you two are done with your...pissing contest,_ it's a draw by the way, _perhaps we could get on with the details, because, and I don't think I'm alone in this, the sooner we get this done, the better," Adam interrupts, placing his hands before him, leaning forward onto the table, reclaiming the high ground for the team at large.

Minutes pass, Ruth fidgets, Harry and Juliet continue to hold each other's stare, cold and unyielding both, but it is Malcolm, staring beyond at nothing in particular, silently praying to himself that he's not about to commit professional suicide, who unexpectedly begins.

"Perhaps, if I may, a deal might be struck? One in which everyone wins, the home office, the team, and...and Ruth," eyes settling on her gently, asking her silently to trust him in this.

Picking up the straw provided by his colleague, Adam encourages Malcolm to elaborate, "Please, what do you have in mind?"

All eyes turn as Malcolm describes his proposition, the details of which are loosely built on by the team, each contributing in turn, interjecting, adding, eliminating, altering to suit, the cohesiveness of the exercise a testament to their loyalty, their professional commitment to the other, even the most fragile of them, each doing their best to both help and protect Ruth from further assault, further humiliation.

Her love for them all, private and rarely expressed wells up in her, expanding her heart, providing the courage she needs, the belief that she can. These people, each as exceptional as they are damaged, are her family, the mirror by which she judges herself, the nest within which she finds comfort. And it occurs to her that perhaps they are all deep rollers, together, lost without.

"Do you think you can work within this, Ruth? Is this...doable to you?" Her eyes bright with the interaction, the hashing of details, Jo, whose eyes are the undoing of most, pleading with Ruth to accept their help, trust them to not let her fail, and fall, a third time, "Yes?" Nodding to emphasize her belief, her absolute confidence that Ruth can pull this off.

How could she say no? How could she possibly give voice to her nagging, yet solidly founded doubts and fears in the face of their collective onslaught of support and confidence? Their faith in her was clear, and in the deepest, darkest recesses of her subconscious, Ruth listened to the voice which whispered, _Do it_. _Do it to prove you can. Do it to feel, if only for a few moments, in control of more than data, information. _Meeting everyone's eager gaze, Ruth nodded in agreement.

She smiles as her eyes finally come to rest on Harry, his supple mouth returning her smile.

Quietly, seductively, the voice whispers,

_Do it. Take what you want. _

**Any interest? Continue, or cut bait and lurk? Give me your thoughts if you've the time and inclination...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Rather than continue to mess with this chapter, I've decided to bite it and post it despite the fact I am not terribly happy with it. Just a bit of filler/set-up, examination of motives and thoughts. Hope you enjoy, but completely understand if you don't. I haven't written any fic in some time, so, full disclosure, I think the fact that I am rusty and out of practice quite evident. Kindly allow me the time to get back into the swing of it, stick with me, and I'll try not to make a complete shit-show of it.**

**GODS and MONSTERS**

Chapter Two

_"__See these eyes so green,_

_I can stare for a 1000 years._

_Colder than the moon, _

_It's been so long."_

_-Georgio Moroder/David Bowie, Cat People (Putting Out the Fire)_

_"_Okay, so this honey trap is going to be a two parter, Ruth; The dinner tonight, where you and Harry will make first contact, and then the gala party two days from now."

"Yes, Malcolm, I understand," Ruth sighs, but refrains from adding _because performing like a trained sex monkey while being watched by the entire grid as a solitary exercise simply wouldn't be sufficient. _

Opening the box in front of him, Malcolm begins to place various items on the table.

"This is your legend, and Harry already has his, so you'll need to find some time with him today to...rehearse."

Looking up, he watches as Ruth listlessly begins to examine the documents, the minutiae that comprises the imaginary life of Sophie Daniels, newly wed spouse of Henry. Picking up the wedding band, she holds it up to the light, momentarily wistful.

"Both your wedding bands contain trackers, by the way. Provided you keep them on, we'll know exactly where you are at all times."

"Humm, yes."

"Ruth, it's going to be fine. Really. Best that you simply lose yourself in your legend," Jo offers, and Ruth rather resents the simplicity with which she offers the suggestion.

Nodding her assent, Malcolm is certain Ruth is in the throws of self doubt, her internal thoughts manifesting, one after another, on her face.

"You know, it's possible Juliet is right, much as I loathe to admit it aloud," he mumbles.

"I'm sorry," her defenses immediately on alert, "Right about what, exactly?"

"Well," glancing at Jo, hoping that she will back him up if needs be, "You _are_ too intelligent for a run of the mill honey trap exercise. There's no real risk in that exercise, so..."

"So...what? I mean, forgive me, Malcolm, but at least with the exercise, no risk also equates to no harm. This...this is an active op, failure goes hand in hand with consequences."

Switching tact, "When you were at Uni, how did you prepare for your workload?"

_What in the bloody hell is he going on about?_

He has to suppress the urge to laugh as his question results in a look on her face best likened to profound confusion at the conversation shift. Even Colin and Jo, if furrowed eyebrows and a wrinkled noses are anything to go by, appear equally confused. All three stare at him, with almost identical quizzical expressions, waiting.

"You know, those assignments which were almost the entirety of your grade?"

As a boy, Malcolm had a dog, Sebastian. He was a small, messy little thing, an amalgam of mixed breeds, a mutt. To him, he was the physical embodiment of a living diary. The best kind of diary, one that could never be broken into, one that would never reveal it's secrets, one that would just listen as Malcolm would pour out his innermost thoughts and boyhood dreams, fears.

He only thinks of it now as he remembers that when speaking to Sebastian, he would sit himself down, wrapping his tail around his front paws, adoring eyes ever watchful and patient, and tilt his furry head to the left. The countenance of Colin, Jo and Ruth, at this moment, is so reminiscent of Sebastian, each head tilted to the left, he can barely contain his amusement.

"Let me guess, you furiously researched, outlined, gathered, but in the end, found yourself completing the projects with only minutes to spare, despite your preparation? Am I right?"

"Yes...yes, but I fail to see what that has to do-"

"It has everything to do with this, Ruth! You, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not, cannot excel unless there is the very real possibility of failure, failure that results in _consequences._ Don't you see? It's what makes you such a fantastic analyst. You are _literally_ a person perfectly suited to thrive under the gun, as it were. You were made for an exercise of this nature!"

"No," shaking her head, waving a hand in front of her as if to ward off further discussion, "That's completely different, it' s not even-"

"Listen to me, Ruth. The way your mind works is God's own mystery. Honestly, I don't know how you do what you do. My brain doesn't work that way, which is what makes you so wonderfully unique. But I promise you, on my honor, this op, you were made for it. You can't fail. You won't." Gathering all the items before him in to the box with one wide swipe of his arm, Malcolm pushes the box into her hands.

Ruth remains motionless, holding her new identity in her hands, a box full of falsified details, unsure whether to leave, stay, argue, acquiesce?

"What if...I mean, maybe you are right. It's just, what happens if-"

"Mother has a saying, _if what ifs and buts were candy and nuts, oh what a Christmas it would be." _He offers this bit of maternal wisdom as though the reasons for doing so were perfectly self evident which, to Ruth's ear, is rather like treating her as one would a petulant child who refuses to eat her brussel sprouts.

"Okay. As it happens, mine said _Don't shit where you eat. _Your point, please?"

_Ah, there it is; she's got some fight in her yet. He feels only slightly guilty for baiting her, but as they say, one must stoke a fire to get it to burn bright._

"I'm going to use that," responds Colin.

Laughing, Jo responds, "You can't know, Ruth. None of us ever do. But we can prepare. And we can hope. Follow your instincts, they're good whether _you_ know it, or not. You'll be fine. Really."

"And," Colin interjects, "If you're going to have to do it with someone, wouldn't you rather it with Harry?"

_Well, this isn't at all awkward._

_"_What? It's true, right?" Looking at each in turn, Colin, completely unaware of his unintended innuendo, blunders on, "I mean, _come on_, we've all heard the stories, right? He should teach a class, The Mastery and Art of Honey Traps. Though, now that I'm thinking on it, he might excel more in the advanced courses, no sense in wasting his skills on beginners..."

"Smoke," Jo quickly blurts out. "I usually smoke. Helps to wrap your mind around being someone else if you are doing something you don't normally do." Glancing at them each in turn, "So...I smoke. It's a suggestion, is all..." her thought trailing off, a slight shrug to indicate that, at least for moment, thankfully, Jo was done offering trapping tips.

_Smoke. Put on a person suit, and if you're a bit uncomfortable, light up. Take care, you're in the hands of a master. Easy. _

"Good. Great, yeah. That's...that's a good tip. Thanks, Jo. That'll be...um, that'll be helpful." Drawing in a deep breath, Ruth allows it to fill her before releasing it in one long exhale.

_Oh, Ruth..._

He has never in his life known a person so uniquely gifted, yet so insecure as Ruth Evershed, and certainly not with any present or past colleagues. Is she completely unaware of Harry's obvious affection for her? Or, alternatively, is it her instinctual understanding of that fact that gives her pause? Malcolm harbors no doubt that Harry, for his part, would eat nails before allowing any harm to come to her, though, he concedes, it is quite possible Ruth is completely unaware of that fact. Malcolm has been a spy for nearly as long as Harry, and it has not escaped his attention that they both, Harry and Ruth, watch each other, stollen glances, both first to arrive, last to leave, a delicate dance which becomes harder to conceal as time passes.

That Ruth is not Harry's well documented "type," is incidental as it is clear to him she has, however inadvertently, captured his attention, resulting in what could only be described as curiously uncharacteristic behavior. At least, he mentally amends, behavior not in evidence in some fifteen years.

The catalyst, without a doubt, was John Fortescue. The John Fortescue Incident, as he refers to it in memory, was, in a word, telling. There had been moments before that. Of course there had been, and anyone paying attention could have predicted the coming escalation. But it was Ruth's actions surrounding Fortescue that brought light to the shadows, exposure to what was previously a hidden secret between the two, a play performed within a play, the nuances as subtle as they were potentially insidious. It was alarming, in truth, the direction Harry chose to pursue. His decision to use Sam, her friend for all appearances, as a mole, a go between, betraying Ruth with every detail of information she offered, pushing her to go further, move faster, discard her tendency to hesitate, expose herself. It was his personal level of distaste that spurred Malcolm into becoming actively involved when Sam approached him.

His disappointment in Harry was so profound that his decision to accompany her, _can Giles come out and play,_ became, in effort and intent, his meager attempt to shield Ruth, and in shielding her, an attempt to assist her in reaching the goal she so desperately yearned for, to love and be loved by another. Connection. He understood, sometimes better than most, the need for connection, that tether that keeps you tied to something beyond yourself, that life line that helps you evolve from oneself as a single, perhaps lonely entity into a greater whole, which, in turn, became part of an even larger whole. He saw the yearning, he felt it, he understood it. He had Mother, but Ruth, to his limited knowledge, had no one, estranged from her mother, her father deceased, no tether, no life line, easy pickings, really.

That the other in question was an unwitting pawn within a game of legends and lies...well, one finds ways to rationalize, and his was to conclude that Ruth losing love with Fortescue, but finding it with Harry was about the worst outcome he could possibly imagine. Harry was, _is_, dangerous. His escapades, both sexual and professional, were legend, the services in the UK and abroad littered with women seduced and discarded. a maverick of the first order. He felt it his gentlemanly duty to provide cover if only to prevent the inevitable destruction were Harry to pursue, and claim, Ruth. The idea that she should become yet another conquest, an empty thrill fuck for Harry Bloody Pearce was inexplicably unacceptable to him. Better to see her with this Fortescue, this likewise lonely man, who by all accounts, would, _could_ provide her a stable and happy relationship. Well, inasmuch as one in the services can hope for from a relationship based on vetting clearances for civilians. That is, of course, assuming said person of interest wouldn't turn tail and run once it was revealed it had all been an elaborate lie, that who they thought they knew was a completely believable, and well acted, fabrication. Harry Pearce, as far as Malcolm was concerned, could trot out one of his many legends and go pull from any number of places throughout London, but he'd be damned if he was going to allow him to pursue Ruth unimpeded.

But that was, as they say, then. And this is now. New situations demand new perspectives, a fact Malcolm was most painfully aware.

Now, after having compiled the backstories, fabricating their legends, Malcolm resigns himself to the fact that, quite beyond his albeit limited control, forces have conspired to join the two of them together. Man plans, and the Gods laugh. It was always thus.

"You'll feel better once you've sat with Harry," he offers. "We've provided a rough outline, but the two of you will fill in the details. Once done, Ruth, you'll get your footing. For what it's worth, I agree with Colin; Harry really is the best person for you to do this with. Remember, you may not have a great deal of experience in the field, but Harry's thirty plus years will put you in good stead. Don't forget, we'll be right there with you, should you have the need...for anything."

Her eyes are downcast, but she nevertheless nods, and he spies a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you for your help. And Jo. Colin. Thank you."

"Ruth?" She turns her head to find Adam peering in from around the doorframe, his boyish smile infectious, and so reminiscent of Wes she can't help but smile brightly in return.

"Real quick, sorry to interrupt. Harry's just returning, and I think it best you two begin work on fleshing out your legends, yeah? You've dinner shortly, and your clothes have just arrived, so hand off what you need to Sam. Thanks."

And he was gone, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.

_Well, that's that then._

"I guess I better..." She sighs, moving her way towards the door, turning at the last moment.

"Malcolm? You'll be on comms, yes? Please say yes, it's just that the last two..."

"Absolutely. Think of me as the welcome voice in your head. Every step of the way, not to fear."

"Me too," Jo adds.

Colin, his attention otherwise occupied, simply offers a thumbs up motion, before returning his attention to his terminal.

"Can never have too many voices in your head, right?"

Feeling slightly better, Ruth makes her way back to her desk, legend box in her arms, and prepares to replace what she knows of herself with what she knows of Sophie Daniels. Catching Zaf's eye, she winks.

"What's the book at, by the way?"

Having the good taste to blush at having been caught out, Zaf, responds in his characteristic cheeky manner.

"Which one? How long to complete, Time table for Tits Up, or odds on method by which, _exactly_, the intended target will attempt to kill you? I'm betting on," ticking them off his fingers, "four days to completion, three hours tits up time, and attempted murder by the clever and creative use of a midget to distract you long enough to inject you with an overdose of insulin."

"Wow," shaking her head, her mouth open in utter amazement, "that is so unbelievably wrong, however do you find the time to do some real work Zaf..."

"The midget's outfit is fantastic, by the way...King Lear, insane, twirling naked comes to mind...what's the..."

"Enough, really, I'm sorry I asked," moving quickly towards Harry's office, box in hand.

"_Fantastically dressed with wild flowers_ is the description you're looking for, if memory serves."

"Don't let me down, Ruth! Fear the Midget!"

"Persons of short stature, if you please, Zaf," her attempt at a frown dissolving into a fit of giggles which can only be achieved through inappropriate, black humor. She adores that Zaf knows this about her, her penchant for off color jokes, knows that while she may outwardly frown and scold, she is nevertheless struggling to contain the full throated laughter just below the surface.

Which is how she finds herself sat in front of Harry, still giggling, a desecration of sorts to the tomblike quiet and solemnity of his office, preparing to become Sophie and Henry Daniels.

**As an American, I don't pretend to know anything about how the British University system works, so willing suspension would be appreciated. And please excuse my weakness, but back comedies never fail to amuse me.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Apologies for the delay. First, I want to thank everyone who has reviewed G&amp;M, it is most appreciated. Second, it seems that this little fic is going to be significantly longer than originally anticipated, so I hope you'll stick with it. Third, the "M" rating is correct, just a bit down the road. H/R Smut is in your future, I promise. Finally, it freaks me a bit to see that people as far as Finland (WHAT?) are reading some little thing I wrote. Humbled and many, many thanks to all. This chapter is very stream of consciousness, Harry POV, and I hope that you enjoy.**_

"_Feel my blood enraged,_

_It's just the fear of losing you._

_Don't you know my name,_

_You've been so long._

_And I've been putting out the fire,_

_With gasoline."_

_-Georgio Moroder/David Bowie,Cat People (Putting Out the Fire)_

Embracing the comfort and solitude of his chauffeured return to Thames House, he leans back, resting his head as he absently watches the city he loves, would give his life to protect, pass by in a kaleidoscopic blur of stops and starts. London's multitudes, complacent, enjoying the warm turn in weather, tourists micromanaging any opportunity to relax and enjoy completely from their holiday with their maps, itineraries, and cameras, children running, jumping, explosive forces so full of energy he tires watching them. Unaware of his scrutiny, observing them unobserved, hidden behind tinted glass, equally, as one mass of humanity, unaware he ensures their safety, it's existence presumed, taken for granted, without knowing the cost of such, without understanding the sacrifice made by others to guarantee purchase. Blissful, untroubled by the truths found in his nightmares, of the dangers they face everyday, systematically completing, and possibly resenting, the mundane and tedious tasks which compile their individual lives.

He understands that each is more important than him, in the grand scheme, collectively becoming the body for which so many in the services have paid in blood, in death, willingly volunteering to fall on the sword to spare another's sacrifice. The multitudes will not mourn for those sacrificial souls, and no one will ever look to the shadows for safety and security, which is where you will find them, that streak caught, yet unidentifiable, in the corner of your eye. No casual conversations between Mr. Shadow and Mr. Civilian, _"I prevented a thermobarric bomb from taking out half of London today. And you?" _ No, that he is expendable, a sacrifice to the greater whole is not lost on him. Ironic, really, that so many unwittingly depend on him, yet would gladly discard him, a stranger, without consciously knowing they were doing so, an unconscious act of self preservation, survival of the fittest. He is one against many, they are, as a unit, few against hundreds. It was always thus, and there are no awards waiting at the end of the road, only a wall erected in the bowels of Thames House, standing sentry, scarred with the names of those who have made the ultimate sacrifice, a testament to the dangers flourishing in the shadows, the reality of life in the terror age. Their end game is simple, stark in it's inherent absolute, black and white nature, death or retirement, pick a name or pick a pasture, that is all.

He is, loathe to admit, facing what he has come to think of as the twilight of his career. That period in time that is not exact, neither entirely light, nor wholly dark, but lush with colors, preternaturally vivid, fecund and glowing with indecision, questions forming faster than one can hope to find solutions, waiting, obscured yet thriving, for choices to be made. It is a foolish man who ignores that moment when come face to face, when who he has been informs who he shall yet be, neither light nor dark, but glowing with possibility. He is not, presently, what he would consider a foolish man, but he has been, bold and confident, swaggering, foolish in disregard, careless with those he loved and had been loved by. As a young field agent, he never thought to examine what his future would hold, never contemplated much beyond the immediacy of his moments, rather than the story they told, and would tell. Brash, self confident, bold and so cocksure, his being fueled by youthful hubris, his attentions occupied by immediate situations, questions, operations, risks, goals, dangers. So to, the immediate available woman, laying herself open, legs spread, lush, inviting him to taste. And taste he did, he devoured, with relish, all that was lain before him, wanting more, needing it, an addicted adrenaline junkie from the start. And he, that beautiful, damaged and golden boy with the cherubic face, so effective, so deceiving, chasing something beyond his reach, indefinable and obscure, laying waste to anything that dared get in his way, discarding those he loved with indifference. It is only now, as his youth has bid him a fond farewell, waving from beyond twilight's illuminations, that he sees the foolishness, and muses at the predictability, the eventuality of hindsight. Hadn't he been warned by those older than him then, disregarding in his certainty, in his absolute self absorption? _You will regret,_ they had said, _you will want to turn time back onto itself to change the things you have done, will do, the choices you have made, and have yet to face._ _Beware_, sang proverbial Greek chorus, _the malignancy growing in your heart, beware the toxins you will carry, entangled with your blood, your heart and mind, beware the nightmares that have yet to manifest,_ beware of it all, a silent mantra spoken in the wee hours, the darkness enveloping, and comfort beyond your reach. A self manifesting prophecy, haunting him, those choices, and the absence of those who warned him. Power he possesses in abundance, but he cannot turn back time, erase the aches and strains of his aging body, halt the questions that plague his mind as he finds himself cresting the peak, descending into middle age, his twilight receding in the distance as the days, years march on. Does he take a risk, the chance for companionship, embrace family, hearth and home? Or, does he continue alone, a known and familiar existence, rattling about until death claimed him?

Before her, the answer was simple, really. So much a simplicity that it's eventuality became, in his mind, fated, destined, beyond his ability to alter or adjust, or his wont to do so. Early retirement, if he were fortunate enough to survive. A cottage by the coast, quietly puttering, perhaps consulting from time to time, maybe a visit or two from his children, but always alone.

But for Ruth.

_But for Ruth._

She had exploded into his life, quite beyond his considerable control of such things, and obliterated any vision of a future which did not include her, instantaneously. From their first encounter she had intrigued him, fascinated him. Her exuberance and enthusiasm, her extraordinary sea green eyes alight with a future she had yet to embark on. Wasted, her superior talents only just beginning to evolve, the tip of the iceberg, toiling away, initially another nameless cog within the machine of Cheltenham, she had distinguished herself immediately at GCHQ. From the start, he knew, _of course he knew_, she was a plant, a mole, but he found himself enthralled with her, their interview taking longer than necessary, his hesitation to conclude obvious, he silently feared, wanting to hear what she would say next, enthralled with her undeniable nervousness and strength simultaneously. That he was conducting the interview, rather than Tom, began to appear, in his mind, fortuitous in casual examination. Then, as the interview continued, fated, destined as he began to find her in his thoughts more frequently than could be thought of as appropriate. His mind wandering through questions of a more personal nature he had, thankfully, managed to avoid giving voice to, he had contented himself to wonder about her favorite tea, movie, book, those inquiries best associated with a first date, rather than an interview concerning her proposed secondment, feeling her voice, the tone and cadence washing over him, soothing something otherwise riotous inside of him. Observing her, concluding she was a tactile creature, touching the documents, running her fingers across the words as if gleaning something invisible but to her fingertips. Pausing in increments, taking her time answering questions posed to her, a thinker, a deep roller this one, this would be spy he failed in every attempt to avoid being charmed by. He watched, his face masking the inappropriate turn his thoughts had taken, and enjoyed the feelings he had thought deadened in him resurface, wanting to know the touch of her fingertips, the process by which her mind worked, her thoughts and desires, the list of topics which made her blush, her warmth and generosity on display, effortless in expression.

Despite his misgivings, his certain knowledge of her eventual treachery, he had chosen her, above all others, for secondment. The depth of his distraction became obvious her first day, as his uncharacteristic failure to inform Tom of her arrival, bursting through the door in a manner prophetic, he lost all train of thought, a rare and surprising exposure on his part, that first instance of his infatuation, revealed, subtle and insidious, and, alarmingly, not lost on those observing their curious exchange.

She became, in short order, indispensable, vaulting almost from the start to legendary status, quietly filling an absence no one had even known existed. Perfectly suited in temperament, intellect and strength, she became the much envied asset of their sister services, and it was a poorly contained, well known secret that each department, in turns both obvious and covert, had attempted to poach her, as was her refusal to entertain them. That she occupied his thoughts more often than not remained a private secret, and became, for him, an exquisite form of torture. Her subsequent treachery revealed, his relief was almost palpable as is the case with events one expects finally come to pass, he had allowed Tom to interrogate her, attempting, by his deliberate absence, to remain uninvolved. Ironic, then, that he found himself incapable of entertaining the idea of her dismissal, and thus set about ensuring that despite Tom's furious and justifiable objections, he would ensure Ruth was granted a rare opportunity to redeem herself, a second chance. He remembers that he could not contain the smile when Tom revealed her confession of finding her double agent status exciting, confirming for him the very thing he had suspected of her from the outset, that she was, first, a spook by pure instinct, and an intellectual second. She, he knew given time, would become addicted to the excitement, the adrenaline, the full throttle rush so different from desk duties, yearning, he saw, for the challenge.

She moved something in him, some unidentifiable mass long since hibernating, the sleeper inside, and he simply could not discard her as he had so many others, discount her, dismiss her as a momentary fancy once conquered, dispensable, a distant memory of lips and body joining the others present in the vague corners of his memory. She was electric, her every movement captivating to him, every success celebrated in his heart, privately, one more step to becoming what he knew her to be, her every thought enchanting, her future, brilliant. Oh, he was quite lost in short order, gazing at her from his office, her place next to him during meetings becoming an unspoken, yet understood, rule. _Bugger the Home Office_ she had blurted, mischievous, her eyes on him, and he very nearly stopped breathing. _Oh, if only,_ indeed. Bugger knocking as well, apparently, her charming habit of bursting through doors becoming her signature, and another distinction, something muttered about, fuel for gossip, that he did not roar his frustration directly at her as he was known to do, frequently, with anyone, _hell_, everyone else. No, she was special from the start, and he, captured from the get, snared without lifting a finger to stop it, a pacing and caged animal eyeing his intended prey.

_At what point did I begin to want her physically? At what point did he begin his days with thoughts of her, end his days yearning, physically longing for her touch, her comfort, her entire submission to him? _Closing his eyes, his frustration at the frequency with which he meditates on these very questions, the inevitability of arrival, the inability to discern and yet the overriding need usurping all other concerns, both state and security, primary in his focus, absolute in his concentration. The multitudes beyond his tinted window would, no doubt, quake in fear if informed how very profoundly she compromises him, the man entrusted with their safety, likely agreeing with Tom, however unaware, that she, in body and mind, should have been exiled back to the monotonous corridors of GCHQ, and in her absence, restore the order her very presence puts into jeopardy. Sighing, his mind demanding the ritual, the rite that has become the cornerstone of his days, he, again, tries to pinpoint the exact moment when his customary care and concern for his agents, both field and desk, began to evolve into something more instinctual, sexual,_ hell_, borderline obsessive with regard to Ruth.

Ruth, the physical embodiment of years spent wanting, searching, needing, Ruth, his drug, his medicine, his curse, his downfall, his salvation, his twilight.

His...Ruth.

He hadn't been looking forward to the exercise, knowing that it would either draw his team together, or destroy them completely. The suggestion that Tom needed to be tested was, in his estimation, ridiculous, but when the Lord High Executioner commands, he is not to be ignored. He had, as was his right, his duty he told himself, exiled Ruth to the periphery, on the outside of meetings, giving voice to suspicions she was a mole, sent to report back their activities, sent to observe the maverick in his native habitat. She had, of course, surmised she had made some error of calculation, a mistake not yet revealed for which she was being punished, her confusion writ on her face, her frustration at being left out, set aside, tangible. She had, despite her exile, uncovered vital intelligence, refusing to be sidelined, redoubling her efforts to prove herself invaluable to the whole, even in her noted absence. Her treachery, once revealed, a relief for them both if he was forced to guess, she began to establish herself a necessity to Thames, as though it's very foundations were tied to her physically, bone to bricks, her skills enhanced, and tested by fire, expanding exponentially. It was EERE which established her, this shy and scurrying book worm, as a surprisingly formidable force. Believing they were faced with the great and rumored Apocalypse, the end of everything known to them with a capital "A," she had, much to his, and everyone's surprise, become the rock on which the exercise rested on. Standing strong as each intelligence blow was delivered, one by one, each worse than before, remaining calm and focused as those around her, one by one, began to nip and bite, accuse and curse, his worst imaginings realized. He became, as directed from on high, an absent observer almost immediately, a consummate actor, a Mr. Shadow, play acting infection.

She had discovered him, the imaginary tether with which they were seemingly joined, pulling at her, requiring her attention. Watching her face, a mixture of pain and fear, compassion and care, as she realized his condition, circumstances uncontemplated and unforeseen. She had hesitantly stepped towards him, reaching her hand out to touch him, make contact, and the hurt so raw and visible when he jerked away, abruptly commanding that she back away, that he didn't want to infect her, was as hard to bear as was illuminating. He had wanted her to reach out, and she had, and were it not for his mandated state of imaginary infection, he would have allowed it, and so much more, if he's honest. As it had been, he very nearly did allow her to touch him, his innate, almost primal inability to avoid damaging, sometimes irrevocably, those around him forcing his hand, himself a willing pawn. That he would infect her became, turning the irony over in his mind, an unnervingly accurate prophecy, both a reflection of his burgeoning urge to possess her whole, and one with which he was all too familiar. Once touched, those that dare the connection to him, regret, the corollary consequence of having made contact, of allowing their minds to open to him, their hearts to welcome him inside, and in too many cases to count, their legs to part, inviting him to plunge, eyes half lidded, needing to be seen and loved. And he, Mr. Toxin, happy to oblige, infected, waiting to use, discard, manipulate, lie, watching as you feel your soul die, telling you, casually, it was necessary.

Tom deliberated, deciding for the greater good, measuring risk against reward, resolved, in demanding both her silence, and his solitude. In those brief moments, as she left his office, left him to his quarantine, as Tom forbade her from comforting him, touching him, before she could act on it, as she hesitated, accurately reading her intentions in her countenance, he experienced a pain he had not expected, unprepared for the deep, thrumming hum resonating through him. It had hurt him deeply, deeper than he wanted to acknowledge then, that he had caused her pain, caused her worry. And the loss of that comfort intended, yet not given, lives with him today, even now, years later, keen in the comfort of his car. He told himself that it was simply an exercise, one of many, nothing but an imaginary instructive scenario, _for their own good_, designed to enhance their skills, internal justifications which did little to diminish his concern for her, watching as the denouement was revealed, the fabrications identified. His stockpile of rationalizations offered were hollow words and empty comforts, their relied upon efficacy diminished as each face reflected betrayal and distrust, his cross to bear, his grave to dig.

They had, as a team, come through unscathed, relatively, and after two proffered bottles of celebratory champagne, and the following obligatory liquid lunch at The George, hurt feelings had been resolved, and the team proper quickly restored to it's previously formidable unit. He had resolved to speak to her alone, away from the grid, separate from their colleagues as the opportunity availed itself, and as they left for The George, she had turned to smile at him. It was later, however, after everyone gathered, as she deliberately avoided him, moving from person to person, casual in her disregard of him, enjoying that rare respite from standing the wall, that it occurred to him she had, perhaps, expected to find someone else sharing a pod with her, his presence an unwelcome surprise. The realization both stunned and unnerved him, the idea that her smiles were for another, that he was an unwelcome trespasser in her mind, that she would not, he feared, forgive him his role, his skill at being a spy.

Set apart, nursing his drink, he watched as she ignored him, basking in the thrill of success, of passing the test, and felt the coil of resentment begin to tighten within him, the first seeds of hatred for her planted in his heart, waiting patiently, her imagined judgements couched within, a malignancy ready to be sewn. That she was ignoring him was, to him, a certainty, so absolute in deliberation that entertaining the theory she was simply enjoying the camaraderie of colleagues never occurred to him, an admittedly valid theory dismissed before having the chance to breathe. But, as is the way with malignancies, they require feeding, suffocating their host for noncompliance. How could he have misjudged her so, he wonders now? Or, more correctly, had he, at the time, misjudged the depth of his desire for her to such an extent that, once realized, his only recourse was to hurt her, cause pain, make her feel the uncertainty she drew from the depths of him, the fears, the acknowledgement and solitude of his meager existence. Had he misjudged the lengths he would go to punish her for his feelings, perhaps unreciprocated, her involvement incidental, his need to watch as she fell from the pedestal he constructed, his desire to dismantle her rich and throbbing, an appropriately malignant ending?

Had she concluded him heartless and cruel for his part in deceiving them all? Had she thought he had a choice? That he had the option to abstain, _for Christ's sake?_ Did she know so little about him that she could believe he derived some measure of enjoyment in breaking them down, watching them tear at each other, mumbling like a madman? She did, _of course she did_, and why not? She'd had little experience with him which would suggest otherwise. Worse still, her judgements, however lacking in concrete experience, were more accurate, more intuitively perceptive than he could bring himself to admit, a proverbial bullseye dead center in his psyche. Had he not watched them from a distance? Had he not, down deep in the places you first begin to lie, enjoyed the games, the manipulations, the subterfuge? Had his body, slumbering behind a desk, not reached for the familiar adrenaline, the active field agent awakening, blood pumping, responding, wanting? Had she not seen him, then, recognized him, her conclusions precise, his desire for her ever more keen, electric? And if she had touched him, if she hadn't been prevented, would he have trembled as she willingly risked being infected? Would he have carried on, pretending madness, watching her as she waited for the first signs of her death to manifest themselves, knowing it would not happen? Would he tell her his secret, his role, or would he observe her, anticipating actions which otherwise would not occur, those life and death actions, the reaching out, the physical need for comfort, the touch now allowed, the confessions now offered, in death, the moments allowed to live? In his selfish heart, he couldn't know, unable to answer, incapable of deciding, would he calm her, relieve her fears, or use them, take advantage of their proximity, to find his way into her, delving deep, to grab and capture, to own and manipulate, to make her his, and he hers, life perceived in the midst of death?

The whiskey spurring him forward, his mind reeled, knowing that, in his heart, he would have taken advantage, for when had he been known not to, at any age, or time? He would have let her await the first stirrings of her death, allowed her to believe his was the last face she would see, in their quarantine, in their deadly union, he would have done all of it, and more, and labeled it fair, his selfishness supreme, his ego preening before her, his inherently corrosive nature revealed, her victimization complete and absolute. Victimization. An ugly word for a reprehensible act, and yet more true than false, more possible than not. He was a spy, after all, victimizing those around him as easily as choosing to protect, calling it duty, hiding behind Queen and Country, damaging his way through those weaker than him, more vulnerable than him, those he should protect, rather than destroy, classifications of hunter or hunted ever changing from one day to the next, amorphous.

Malcolm had, he remembers, quietly, as was his way, encouraged him to join the group, leave his meditations and recriminations with the marred surface of the bar, allowing them the opportunity to forgive him, joke with him, reconnect with him. Instead, gripping his tumbler tighter as if he half expected Malcolm would claim it as his own, he had asked if Malcolm had, recently, that day's exercise notwithstanding, noticed anything out of sorts with Tom, knowing he would volunteer his thoughts, knowing Malcolm was as concerned as he, both having witnessed in years past what it looks like when a spy dissolves from the inside out, implodes, the tells of self destruction all too familiar. He will always wonder if Tom could have been saved, or if, alternatively, it was his refusal to deny his conscience any further which became his salvation? One more secret, one more promise of discretion extracted between them done, despite Malcolm's continued insistence, _Harry, they need to know you are still with us, part of us,_ he had elected not to join them in celebration. Instead, returning to the quiet of his office, the grid virtually deserted but for a few, He closed his eyes, leaning his head back, and visualized the boxes of himself in his mind's eye, the parts withheld from the world, exposed, those aspects he had unconsciously begun to associated with Ruth. One by one he examined the contents, one by one he bid goodbye, locking each in turn before moving to the next. He remembers that it felt a bit like suffocating, primal in alarm, a physical absence of a life sustaining necessity. He remembers that it seemed to take years to complete. He remembers that the seed planted earlier was still seductive in his heart, beating, waiting to corrode, waiting to destroy. He remembers he didn't return home until long after everyone else had left.

Tom had unravelled, in spectacular fashion, and was summarily turned out, ostracized, from the rest, a civilian, who, _some say, used to be MI5_. He had asked her to stand by him, support him, despite her initial refusals, loyal to a fault, her insistence that Tom couldn't be, as he suggested, unravelling. That she had an affection for Tom was obvious, familial as a sibling, her loyalties divided between what she knew, and what she suspected. Protect someone she looked on as a brother, or sacrifice him, disregard their history, toss him to the wolves, watch as they tear with teeth and claws, indifferent as the gods. He needed her with him, her considerable skills better able to predict Tom's escalating and erratic behavior, and her ability to empathize, he secretly hoped, able to break him down, draw him back into the fold, barring that, close enough for capture. She had risked infection for him once, he reasoned with himself, and later, on a bench, as he had detailed his suspicions, he'd asked her to risk again, wondering, as she deliberated, staring into the Thames, if the two situations were really so different, each man losing the thread down to a woman's influence, the proverbial there but for the grace of god cautionary tale. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until she had agreed to stick by him, quietly, sadly pledging herself to him, and thus his chosen course of action. Perhaps, he had dared to hope then, she had forgiven him the EERE exercise, his role therein, his dishonesty, but he did not, for a single moment, believe she would forget his forcing her to choose between them both, he and Tom, demanding her allegiance as though he had a right to it, when in truth of fact, she'd had little option otherwise. The voice in his head, an alarm beginning to toll, had spoken of lies as he manipulated her to his side, as he began to cultivate the seeds of doubt about Tom in her consciousness, so desperate to have her at his side, telling himself it was for the best, after all. Add a shotgun blast to his map of scars, and another name to the evolving list of people he's failed, his reward for being correct, his punishment for failure.

Had Tom turned himself inside out for love, or had love had it's way, twisting him into someone else, destroying the person he was, ruining a life? Cautionary tale it may be, and he, even in this moment, sat idly gazing, could not decide, ruined or redeemed? She was clever, our Ruth. On side, a spook by instinct, she'd adeptly maneuvered to reach him quarantined at hospital. He smirks now, drawing the connection, their relationship, if it could be called such, marked by quarantine, each infected, each fueling the illness of the other, hazardous, dangerous, seductive. Her note, a smuggled bit of trade-craft by a nurse who would become her asset, Oliver Mace holding court, Tom dead, begging his return, demanding he reclaim his territory. When the nurse spoke of his lover's concern, her worry likely not beneficial to her pregnancy, he had held consciously his breath, allowing the statement to wash over him, reverberating. Her legend, his lover, his _pregnant_ lover, it was, in a word, a revelation, that she should choose such a story. Galvanized he nearly vaulted from the room, barely registering signing the forms to obtain his ill-advised release, disregarding the pain that radiated through him with every step towards her.

"She does love him, you know," she had said of Christine Dale, and he was so rankled, so distracted with thoughts of how similar he and Tom's predicament was that he snapped a curt and cold _So what _in reply, his eyes hard and volatile, her's soft and understanding.

"Have you never loved someone so much that you can't help but throw everything you know away, and consider it fortunate, a kindness the universe designed for you, bestowed on you, a sin almost to ignore? Do you truly feel so little compassion for them, for him, at least? I don't believe you are that heartless, Harry, I can't._"_

_And there it was._ He had wanted to scream at her, _of course I'm that heartless_, you silly, naive child, push her away, anger roiling as she again peered effortlessly into his soul, his fears, giving them voice, forcing him to hear wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she pledged to stop, promised to leave him be, distant and safe. He had loved Jane, his children, but in that love, he had pushed them away, pushed them into obscurity, the periphery of his conscience, telling himself it was for their protection, to save them from harm. He knew, revolting as the knowledge was, his deliberate distance had served his needs more than theirs, that they were a hinderance, an obstacle in his career, his advancement through the ranks, his nature better suited to the immediate, the thrust and parry of the field, alive and kicking. He had never loved her enough to throw that away, neither she nor his children. He had never loved anything that much, and at that moment he had wanted to scream all of it into her upturned face, that beautiful face that made him nearly as undone as Tom Quinn. In the dark of night, as he sat in the silence that was his empty house, he understood his hatred, his fury with her was a measure of his affection, twisted and sullied, but indicative of an all but overpowering infatuation. He did understand Tom, in his twilight contemplation of things past, he understood completely the pull of another, the inexplicable connection that once made, would be a slow and painful death in the attempt to sever. He feels it now, the mere thought of her affecting his mood, his heart rate. So it was, he decides, redemption for Tom Quinn, and bless.

She had, to her credit, never brought the subject of Tom up with him again, though she did mourn him for a time. Adam, seconded from Six to assist in resolving the Quinn situation, as it was referred to in the hallowed halls, had seamlessly slid into the space that once looked like Tom Quinn, and she had kept whatever resentments at his arrival to herself, though she was one of a very few. Adam, for his part, had recognized, in much the same way Harry had, Ruth's potential, and had set about exploring her abilities almost immediately. Becoming another surrogate sibling, they worked well together, she and Adam, and he was liberal with his praise at her natural ability in the field, pantomiming her mannerisms for Harry, excitement for both her admirable performance and the chase literally dripping from him. That it would end with them both blown, kidnapped, and hunted by a crossbow wielding racist was, well, certainly unfortunate, but as he thinks of it now, he can't help but chuckle aloud at the freak-show aspect of something so ridiculous occurring in the day to day lives of those for whom they are bound by duty to protect, en masse. He had conducted her debrief, as much to relieve Adam of the duty, as to allow the opportunity to hear, first hand, what her thoughts were, and, consequently, to verify if indeed both he and Adam were right about her potential.

"What were you thinking turning back for Adam, you could have been killed, Ruth?" The question, more for his benefit, out of his mouth before he could filter his meaning.

"You would have preferred he kill Adam?"

"No, of course not, but _you_, my dear, disregarded a direct order..."

"...And saved his life...from a sociopathic, megalomaniacal, racist who wanted to shoot us both through with a crossbow bolt."

He eyes were wide, he remembers, and the mirth she felt, her recognition that it was all so beyond what one imagines a day at work to entail, working at her mouth, twitching, attempting to contain the smile that threatened, the subsequent laughter crinkling both her nose and the corners of her lovely, vibrant eyes.

"Soooo, there's a sentence I never imagined I'd say..."

"What did it feel like, Ruth? Can you tell me? _Just me_. I won't include it. How did you feel when you hit him?" Almost predicting her exact answer, knowing it intuitively before she had even thought to form the words, listening, intent and focused, her answer passing lightly across her lips.

"_Exhilarated_. And I would have been happy to hit him again," smiling at the thought, content in her admission.

But her eyes had shown bright with something else, something field agents have come to recognize in others, vibrant and glassy, the result of having gotten their fix, their target captured, their inability to rein themselves in, antsy, darting, riding adrenaline as one would a wave. And in his contemplation of her, he saw himself, aspects of himself reflected back, finding the similarity, anticipating the comfort, opening those boxes he had spent half an evening closing in deliberate meditation, welcoming her perusal.

_Oh shag, this woman, _he thought.

_She had him by the balls._


	4. Chapter 4

**I've always felt that the connection between Ruth and Harry, particularly when Juliet asks if he was in love with her, came on suddenly, and lacked the necessary foundation on screen. Where did she come up with that idea? So, I've tried to provide those things unsaid and not provided, background foundation, which makes such a question asked a bit more feasible, to me anyway. To that end, I have taken liberties, and hope that my efforts prove a genuinely believable interpretation for y'all to try on. Such is the way of things when two actors decide on a direction which is not what the writers had in mind. This chapter follows directly from the last, and continues in the vein of stream of consciousness, Harry POV. Please enjoy...**

_"__Like a soul without a mind_

_In a body without a heart_

_I'm missing every part..."_

-Massive Attack, Unfinished Sympathy

_"__Why'd ya do it she said, why'd you let her suck your cock?_

_Oh, do me a favor, don't put me in the dark_

_Why'd ya do it, she said, they're mine all your jewels,_

_You just tied me to the mast of the ship of fools"_

_-Marianne Faithfull, Why'd Ya Do It?_

_John Fortescue. _Just the thought of his name sets his teeth on edge. She had begun concentrating on audio surveillance, more so than what was customary, enough that he had noticed, which in itself indicative of just how much of his time was occupied by thoughts of her, what she was doing, where was she spending her time. It felt as though he possessed an internal homing beacon solely dedicated to Ruth, and her whereabouts. He smiles to himself, content, the effects of the connection, rather than fading, have enhanced with the passage of time, a soothing consistency in his otherwise unpredictable existence. Even then, rather than unnerving, suffocating, he found his ability to hone in on her comforting, that at any point in the day he knew, intuitively, where she was located, and could, should the urge strike, find her. And he did, more often than not, drawn to her side like a magnet, needing to be near her. For the most part, he observed her covertly, and began to feel nearer to her, closer to her, whilst compiling mental lists of her tendencies, her particular idiosyncratic collection of tells and characteristics, both physical and emotional, all compiling the fascinating creature he had found himself incapable of ignoring. Resigned to appreciating her from the distance their situation demanded, he was nevertheless struck by the thought he had not, nor had Juliet, observed any such distance those many years ago, and as he sits, observing passerby, wishes not for the first time, that he had. Hindsight, he thinks, makes an ass of us all. The cataclysmic fallout from that liaison is something he wears everyday, as one would a hair shirt, uncomfortable, designed to torture the mind, if not just the body.

It's not as though the situation had not arisen before. Spies believing they have fallen in love with an asset, someone they handle, manipulate, monitor. It had happened to him. Twice. That Ruth had fallen into the fantasy so many before her had should not have been surprising. Her introverted and shy nature was ripe for just such a situation, and her daily responsibilities provided an easy, accessible opportunity. Perhaps his much younger self reminded him more of Ruth than he care to admit, though they could not have been more different, more opposite in character make up. Despite his inherent dislike of Americans, crass and boorish buffoons, all, as far as he could tell, Jim Croaver had managed to penetrate his natural animosity, and they had formed a bond between them, one which survived their differing goals throughout their coordinated efforts in Europe. The fact that he was married did little to curb his satisfactions, an array of young and nubile creatures only too willing to buy his proffered legends, only too willing to acquiesce, his cock only too willing to comply. It became a game, and he shakes his head at the foolishness of it all now, the reprehensible nature of it, the shallow depth and meaning, the story it tells of him, who he was, and, truth told, who he could easily be again. Women have never been a problem in the sense of fucking them, and though he may presently be in the midst of middle age, women continue, with regularity, to throw themselves at him, his natural charm and charisma, coupled with his position of power, if they knew, was, apparently, an irresistible combination, one he, on occasion, had been keen to take advantage of. Before Ruth, he admits, chuckling at how deeply she had managed to take hold, her absence at his side during these excursions into empty sexual conquests becoming the very presence that put a halt to them. So prolific sexually, he had little difficulty seducing assets and colleagues alike, and never bothered to pause in reflection, never bothered to ask of himself _why? _Always pushing the envelope, always needing that next high, that next rush, a consummate addict and spy, it became a game of one-upmanship between them, and while it was understood, then, he was the victor, he had simultaneously only begun to lose the war.

It is true that he'd engaged in a volatile and passionate affair with Juliet Shaw, his then boss, his frequent opponent, his enthusiastic lover. What is not well known is, simultaneous, he was carrying on an affair with Elena Gavrick, an asset. It was, in Jim's estimation, a state of convoluted circumstance which vaulted him beyond simple charismatic lucky guy into dedicated lothario, worthy of envy as so many openly coveted his lauded skills. The rumors, whispers spoken even as he passes today, are, for the most part, true, though some are so fantastically embellished upon, he wonders, in his more sardonic moments, if he had missed some opportunity for improvement.

It was his continuing affair with Juliet that destroyed his marriage, though in his heart he knew it was over the moment he waited until _after_ he had married Jane to tell her of his impending career in the security services. And, while he had loved her, cared for her, the guilt he felt for betraying her between every pair of legs that parted for his pleasure never reached that level of soul crushing, knee buckling despondency which would have caused him to stop. That came later, when she took his children from him, when he, as a matter of course, ignored his outright refusal to give up the security life, give up the active ops in Europe, give anything up for the love of something beyond himself. Two children he couldn't have and, it appears, one he won't have, the sum of his skill as a man, discarded women, discarded spouse and children, divorce, but one hell of an agent, legendary, one of the best. And alone. Alone even in another woman's bed, a pull from some nameless pub, empty, hollow...he deserved as much.

Presently, he's come to understand that all Jane had ever wanted of him, besides the obvious dedication to marital vows, was to be _seen _by him, for him to truly know her, separate from himself, separate from their union, an entity unto herself, independent, with all that entails. But he, a motherless child of a drunken father, an adrenaline addict, a masterful Mr. Shadow, too poorly prepared for human interaction, companionship beyond what satisfies in the periphery, failed to know how. An honest failure, but failure just the same, and one he has only recently, with Catherine, made the attempt to address and rectify. They were always, Jane, Catherine and Graham, to him, an extension of himself, indistinguishable from him, and thus, or so he thought, would always be with him. That he had become, in his hubris, his belief that they were an indistinguishable part of one another, a younger, colder, absentee father, a darker mirror image of his own, is his worst failing to date, a gut punch that never wanes, never heals, never weakens. He loves his children, but readily accepts he does not know them, not the faintest flicker of knowledge, and they love him, but no longer _want_ to know him.

Helpless, his life coming full circle, he been allowed, with John Bloody Fortescue, a taste, just the barest hint of what Jane must have felt knowing he was fucking another woman, someone he associated with during his workday, someone he was with as she sat waiting, her imagination becoming her willing enemy, her vows to him her curse. And as he watched as Ruth began to physically yearn, her emotions playing across her face, for something beyond herself, beyond the solitude, he couldn't help but reflect on how similar it must have felt to his children, yearning for him, companionship, wanting to believe, as she must, that they were worthy of such simplicities afforded everyone else they laid their eyes on, yet, without explanation, denied them. He had been curious, initially, thinking that she would tire of the exercise, tire of the sense of wishes unfulfilled, of distance insurmountable, in essence, give up, and to his mind, return to him, devote thoughts of that nature to him. Ridiculous, foolish old man, but it is what he had hoped. He knew, to his shame, the road she was embarking on, the consequences, the pain and emptiness, the idea that one could forge a relationship with someone else while never once revealing themselves from the shadows, never once dropping the mask, that way madness lay. And regret, a lifetime of regret. When Malcolm had mentioned having provided the documents to Ruth I had requested over the weekend, I knew, immediately, that she had lied, her duplicity and skill underestimated by everyone, save Adam and myself, and thus, who wouldn't have believed her? Seething at her audacity, nevertheless, I was torn between pride in her skill, and fury at her escalating attachment to this Fortescue. Rationalizing my feelings of rejection, I embarked on an elaborate game, one which I hoped would both teach her a lesson, and, in my darkest, malignant heart, hurt her. But hurting her, my heart screamed, wasn't enough. I had to break her on the rack of experience, teach her never to underestimate how very deeply I understood what it is that we do, everyday, and thus, reveal how excruciatingly hateful I could be.

So full of spite he had difficulty breathing, he had handled it badly, truth be told. She had accused him of cowardice at the conclusion of her reprimand, and she was right. It could have been simple, succinct, water under the bridge as this situation was by no means equal to the betrayal she committed in reporting activities to secure her secondment. By comparison, it was rather innocent in an endearingly lonely way. Except to him. To him, her attraction to Fortescue was a betrayal of him, and his growing fascination with her. That she was becoming likewise fascinated with another, acting on it, was, well, intolerable to him, and his admittedly irrational response was to spy on the spy, made all the worse for corrupting her colleagues against her.

He could have stopped it early. He could have addressed her breaking protocols, but curiosity got the better of him. In truth, he wanted to know how far she would go, how far would she take it? Would she meet him, date him, sleep with him, honestly fall in love with him? What legend would she use, and for how long, would she submit the Permission to Socialize for his approval? Would she, in fact, follow through, or cut bait and run? Did she, in her naiveté, believe that any relationship embarked on in this way, the foundation a crumbling mass of fabrications and lies, would stand the test of time, let alone the inevitable moment when all was confessed? Did she believe this Fortescue was something she could effectively test drive as one would a car, deciding after a taste if one wished to make a genuine offer? Hadn't Jane screamed much the same to him? Tears streaming down her face when he would come home stinking of another woman's perfume, another woman's sex, Juliet's scent? _Why, Harry, just tell me why? Am I not enough, are we not enough? _How could he tell her that no, they weren't enough, she and the children would never be enough, and in the telling make it real? Worse still, confess that he didn't even know what _enough_ looked like, what it felt like, that he needed so much, needed to breathe, needed to forget the ugliest things ever imagined burned into his memory, that to touch her was to infect her, that she wasn't what he wanted, maybe never wanted because she needed him to be who he was not, could never be, for her, for them? That the parade of women never asked anything beyond his cock, the satisfaction found in the simple, hard thrusts, easier because it was artificial, because it was disingenuous, because he wasn't actually there. _ He could bloody breathe._ How do you tell another the truth of your counterfeit soul, that you are, in essence, , not here, not there, not anywhere, and then ask them, expect them to forgive?

She wanted to breathe, he knew, he understood, palpable as a heartbeat. Ruth wanted to feel, hidden in the shadows, and she wanted to erase what she knew to be true, of herself, of the species...she wanted. He loved her for it, the symmetry, as much as he hated and damned her for the same. He saw himself, he saw his vulnerability, and he wanted her to hurt for not recognizing the same in him, bloody bastard that he was...and is. And is.

So it was with a divided and slightly guilty conscience that he entrusted Sam to monitor Ruth's actions, who, in turn, co-opted Malcolm, each encouraging her to continue while reporting every development, every action, back to him. Sam suspected, he is certain, it was more than simply Harry wanting to make some demonstrably authoritative point with Ruth. On the rooftop, even as he tried to appear casual, proffering an air of _oh you silly, naive girl, Ruth,_ fortified with a rare chuckle, she had, nevertheless, stared at him a bit too long, gauging his reaction to her assertions, and he knew he was beginning to unravel, refusing to either look at her, or dismiss her, lest he completely give himself away. Sam, far more observant than given credit, watching Danny pine for Zoe, waiting, always waiting for him to notice her adoration, professing to be uncomfortable with her role in the game, but the twinkle in her eye giving her away, her excitement at being taken into his confidence, and another weaker subject for him to victimize. Malcolm was another story altogether. His facial expressions never wavered from contemplative indifference, but he knew Malcolm was suspicious of his motives, the lengths he was going to, the simplicity that could be afforded the situation altogether, apparently, not in the offing. He is half convinced that, when push came to shove, Malcolm performed as requested to better keep abreast of what exactly was going on, and his offer to pose as Ruth's brother solidified, for him, the very real possibility that Malcolm would, if necessary, do what was required to protect Ruth from him. Admirable, certainly, but not something for which he was going to thank him, proving yet another obstacle in an already obstacle littered arena. Both Malcolm and Sam had dutifully reported the details regarding the scratch requiem, and to this very day, both remain unaware of the necessity, he had already known all there was to know. He had spooked the spooks, neither Ruth, nor Malcolm, or so he had thought, aware of his presence, hidden, ever watchful, a serpent coiled in the darkness, the uninvited toxin.

The details he remembered were of a sort that foretold heartache inasmuch as the possibility of companionship, his imagination running riot over his common sense. He knew, for example, what she looked like in her dress, lovely, form fitting, understated, altogether enchanting. He knew what she looked like as she lost herself in the music, joining and gradually blooming whilst surrounded by voices, joined in purpose, a single entity of which she was invited to become a part. He knew, from the dark recesses beyond, what she looked like as she gazed at the object of her infatuation. The open adoration, the nervous gestures so familiar to him, the glances afforded to her by Fortescue had filled him with an almost violent jealousy. His resentment flourished, his realization that while he had wanted her to push her structured routine, her self imposed limitations and boundaries, that she had chosen to do exactly that with another, when _he_ had handed her the opportunity, _he_ had allowed her to flex and stretch, to realize her brilliant potential, his agent, his prodigy,...he hated her for it. That he had been the masterful puppeteer, orchestrating from the start, served only to stoke the fires of his rejection, his ever present resentments. He hated her for the weakness she stirred in him, the hopes she generated in him, the affection he felt for her, his reactions and distractions because of her fueling a livid fury, irrational, toxic, building, waiting to hurt, wanting expression despite the consequences, once done, impossible to turn back. He hated, most of all, that he was hidden, compelled to attend, an uninvited usurper incapable of turning away, needing to watch her, needing to hear her, needing...her. His curiosities satisfied by his own design, his bitter pill to choke on. And he hated himself for hating her.

He took a perverse form of pleasure, therefore, in watching them as they walked along the fountain, reading the body language, knowing she was collapsing, understanding that Fortescue was too unsure to push her, and as they parted, he to his solitude, and she to resume hers, Harry truly understood what manipulative, self serving, corrosive son of a bitch he had become, an acknowledgement that, however honest and necessary, left him reeling. And angry, furious with himself, and livid with her that she should stir him in such a way, that she should affect him, that he would want her to continue doing so, turning himself into his own most formidable opponent.

His fury still simmering, unresolved, he conducted himself in an admittedly shameful manner following, and she called him heartless, a coward. That he had wanted, in that reprimand, the very same answers Jane had wanted, from her, was another moment of prophetic symmetry experienced. _Why, Ruth_ he had wanted to ask. Tell me what you want, and I will tell you all the ways I yearn to satisfy, list every moment I have felt the same, every reason you should succumb to me, be with me, breathe with me, always. He is a coward, of course, not least because he waited until she stormed away to quietly admit, albeit to an empty room, that he was not heartless. He had orchestrated this elaborate farce _for her own good, _he told himself, rationalizing every action, decision, manipulation. That she was fast becoming the reason his heart continued to pump, that it was because he cared for her that he remained distant, despite the thought of her with anyone else sending him into paroxysms of frustration and "what if" tortures scenarios, his imagination unleashed to explore every painful detail. Because, he knew, to indulge in anything further would sully her, would taint her, like Jane, and she would regret never being clean again. Unlike Jane, he realized, she had become that thing, that _one thing_ he could, in all his life and experience, sacrifice for, and in the sacrifice, become whole. Did he love her? Did he simply crave the similarities found within her, and, thus, crave himself in the same self absorbed manner which characterized his younger days? Was she common ground, mirrored symmetry, simply another extension of himself, as Jane was, as his children were, or does he see her as a separate, independent entity worthy of affection, devotion, love in her own right? He couldn't answer then, though he knows the answer now, feels it in his bones, his shifting of perspective, seeing with the eyes of age and experience, feeling with the heart of an aged and damaged man.

_Harry, I'm concerned about you, what with Tom and...all that has happened. Do you understand what you are doing, what you are starting. With Ruth _Malcolm had asked, late, after Ruth had left the grid, after he had exposed himself a fraud during the reprimand.

Foolish to have thought he could game his own agents, but regarding Malcolm, more so the fool. Malcolm, who had sat sentinel, a quiet observer to the better portion of his time at Five, who knew, better than anyone currently present his considerable failings, liaisons, encumbered conscience. He had, to his credit, waited until the grid was all but deserted to enter his office, confessing his knowledge that he was at the requiem, demanding, albeit in his signature unassuming Malcolm way, what he thought he was playing at? He had made to rebuke him, a full throated, volatile rebuke, and as Malcolm had simply raised his hand, waving away his denials like so much smoke, he had, uncharacteristically, backed down, simply facing him, waiting for the judgements and recriminations. Instead, much to his surprise, and in his heart, relief, Malcolm had simply sipped the whiskey he had offered him, using the time in preparation to collect his thoughts, manipulative as clockwork, and waited for what he would offer by way of explanation, if at all inclined.

"I'm drawn to her," was the extent of what he offered, and Malcolm only nodded his understanding as though he was validating a fact Malcolm had long since drawn, and had reconciled himself to.

"She is an exceptionally well suited match, it seems," after a moment, looking into his tumbler, "It's been some time for you..."

"Yes..." Moments pass in companionable silence, each of us contemplating the contents of our respective tumblers.

"Don't play her about, Harry. She is not someone...she is, well...she's alone, Harry. She's _alone_, and easy prey for someone with your...skills. See that you don't destroy the very thing you find so captivating about her, is all. I just...If it's just an infatuation, then, please, leave her be."

"And if it's more?"

"Is it?" Delving deep, he was, eyes sharp, keen to notice any falsehood, any artifice, any lie passing the lips of Mr. Shadow.

"I don't know. The thought of her with...if I'm honest, Malcolm, I don't know what I feel. I've never..." Sitting there, nursing the first of many drinks for the evening, he remembers being stunned, literally, that he would engage in the conversation, let alone admit to anything, least which having unresolved inclinations towards a subordinate to yet another subordinate, regardless of their history.

Setting his tumbler on the desk before him, Malcolm rose, comporting himself, and he knew the worst was in the offing, did what he was able to prepare and armor himself.

"Perhaps, before you continue further, you _should_ know. For both your sakes."

With that parting comment, Malcolm left, but not without, however unobtrusively, making sure he knew that he would be watching, for any misstep, anything untoward, and he would, if needs must, chose to protect Ruth.

Malcolm, he had told himself, sitting in the quiet of his office, didn't see her as he did, as Adam did. Fragile, vulnerable, in need of protection, that was the sum total of Malcolm's evaluation. No, she was more than that, and he could have his picture of her, to caress and protect, but he would rather the truth of her, the warrior inside he knew was there, the passionate woman he saw, however fleetingly, surface as she sang, as she allowed herself to express who she was, without thought or inhibition. It would be their secret, he and Malcolm's, one of numerous secrets. Malcolm would not reveal to her that he was there, and he would not reveal to Ruth the extent of Malcolm's duplicity, nor desire to protect her from him. It would seem, he thinks now, falsified foundations have a tendency to metastasize, capturing the otherwise healthy surrounding environment, and corrupting it, killing it in the end.

And the niggling thought, the one that, for a time, came to the fore, demanding recognition as he faced himself in the mirror each morning, had Ruth's breach in protocol been simply the convenient excuse necessary to construct a legitimate, albeit secretive, means by which to follow her? An opportunity, as such, to stop _wondering_ what she was doing, and actually _observe_ her, in the flesh, in a house of God, as she reached for the same satisfactions he likewise yearned for? And every morning, without fail, he told himself that he, not John Bloody Fortescue, had a right to her, that only he would understand the complexities of their lives, the nature of their work, the nature of her. Only him. And thus, the malignancy grew, even as he lied to himself that he, like Malcolm, was only protecting her, saving her from the pain and regret, the inevitability of the path she had briefly walked, but for him, Mr. Shadow, longing, as it became clear, his immunity to the seductions of being _seen_ by another having forsaken him.

Then, the unimaginable.

He knew, had always known, that those in the services were dispensable, an understood expectation of the job, lay your life down for the lives of others, sometimes hundreds of thousands of others. He had put whatever resentments he may have once fostered aside years ago, telling himself that one must choose their battles. Until, that is, Zoe was forced into exile as a sacrifice to public perception. The bitterness that her forced absence saved not one single life lives with him today, as does the loss of one who had become to him, in his own's absence, a surrogate daughter. She was an unnecessary sacrifice, and her absence was felt by all, inasmuch as one can mourn someone living, but for all practical purposes, dead to them, no one more than Danny. Adrift, Danny having lost both Tom and Zoe suddenly, became a sullen shell of who he once was, betrayed, resentful, angry. Yet, Ruth, in her patient way, managed to break through, managed to forge a bond with him fostering a growing friendship which would prove, had anyone had the gift of precognition, life saving. It was Danny that first raised the alarm of her uncharacteristic absence from the grid, his understanding her well enough to know she didn't know how to text, her acumen at intelligence gathering not extending to a mastery of advances in technological gadgetry. He remembers now the numerous times, after Zoe's absence, when Danny would tease Ruth, changing her ringtone to songs he knew would embarrass her, laugh at how she couldn't figure out how to delete her phone messages, leaving it full for days, and he envied the easy way they had with one another, familial in a way he had yet to breach with her. To say he was jealous would be accurate, if not wholly unflattering, indicative of his continued obsession.

It was, in the end, Danny who saved her, from Forestall, a man so gifted, so full of promise, so filled with bitterness that he would have sold the world to salve his wounds. They, he and Ruth, had known one another while both were at GCHQ, and it seemed to him, at the time, Forstall's interest had not waned. Her body language, much to his chagrin, seemed to mirror that interest, and his resentment at having virtually invited another rooster into the yard, no matter how well suited to solve the predicament a pharmaceutical hacker had plummeted all of London into, grew exponentially. Fortescue and Forestall, a refrain in his head, Malcolm's questions, his warnings, all a riotous noise, leaving him ill tempered and unusually curt. She had, it was believed, texted Sam of her sudden illness. Had he been of clearer mind, he would have seen the uncharacteristic nature of her sick out, and as Danny correctly asked of us all to name a time when Ruth had ever called out sick, he knew, in that moment, that he knew less about her than previously believed, that he didn't know her at all. As Danny volunteered the details in his debrief, he remembers thinking that this young man before him knew Ruth in a way he had not dared. Danny knew the person, he only the ideal of what he thought she was, of what he needed her to be, and were it not for Danny, his lack of understanding her could have nearly killed her. While he resented, yet envied Danny this gift, he was also, curiously, grateful, thankful that she was still alive, she was still a possibility, she was, in a word, knowable if he dared risk it. The malignancy in his heart, the seed planted before Tom left them, Adam's arrival, and Zoe's exile, breathed into his consciousness, _but you are on the periphery, and you nearly got her killed. You have yet to answer the question, is she more than an infatuation? Is she your redemption or your undoing? Will you dare to find out? _

Still he could not divine the answers, then, calm his mind as it is calmed now.

Aware of Malcolm's silent scrutiny, or, if he were honest, despite it, and having had a glimpse of Ruth off the grid, he found himself eager to manufacture any opportunity to spend time with her, even covertly, again. The mandated interview for the DG position, a position even _he_ couldn't feign interest in, surrounded by politicos he openly held in distain, requiring he become, if successful, some bastardized Harry Pearce version of ineptitude and self aggrandizement was as fortuitous as crap timing, but afforded the perfect opportunity. Conspiring, his better angels quieted, he saw it as an opportunity to come between them, Danny and Ruth, to reveal himself in bits and pieces in allowing her to help him prepare, wide open in it's potential. Yet still, his lessons of the past seemingly lost to him, so egregiously about _him_, about what _he_ wanted, that he wonders, now, how it was he didn't explode, implode, both, so stuffed full, so preening, so entitled, his face coloring with embarrassment, and he's momentarily thankful he had chosen to raise the privacy screen.

She approached the task, dogged and determined, and he found himself vacillating between wanting to be near her, and longing to hide, so penetrating were her inquiries, so voracious was her appetite for information, her need to know, her thirst for knowledge about him, the man, the sleeper inside. His inability to concentrate, yet unwilling to end the psychological examination, despite his discomfort, he had allowed Adam to determine the course of action, the interrogation of Robert Morgan, mercenary, and, as it later turned out, devoted father. Plausible deniability overlooks a great deal, useful, perhaps even indicative of his political suitability? But for her, but for her demand for answers, _is there a line we do not cross_?

Smiling from a school photo, the daughter of mercenary Robert Morgan, in need of an organ transplant, innocent, her face flushed with joy, her childlike trusting nature literally jumping off the page. "Are there some lines we don't cross," she had asked him, and he knew that it was a crossroads for him. The child had, likewise, pulled at his heart, and the decision made, the answer given would determine where he fell on her scale of ethics and morality. How far does one go in the name of Queen and Country? Do we use a child as a pawn and call that just? Do we, alternatively, admit having as a collective become the mirror image of what we fight against? He knew she felt a kinship with the girl, that she, too, had had too much on her plate as a child, too many adult issues coloring her young life, and understood that in sacrificing the child, Harry would prove, by correlation in her mind, willing to sacrifice Ruth as well. That she very nearly did not inform him of what she had uncovered suggested that she, too, did not want to know the answer, did not want to believe him capable, preferring those hard truths to remain floating in the ether of uncertainty, where hope lives, when one can more easily lie to oneself. The place is familiar to him, it's walls and comforts, the deceiver that wears a smile.

Proving more than capable, measuring sacrifice, deciding as would a god who lives today, and who may die all in the name of greater good, he had failed her, he and Adam both, spectacularly. She would have, he has little doubt, slept soundly were she to have chosen the child, secreting the information back from whence it came, despite the cost, regardless of lives lost. Measuring the sacrifice by perspective, sacrifice a child, or untold numbers, where does one fall, how does one decide? That they had used the child, that it had, in the end broken her father, another successful conclusion measured on an evolving scale of losses, made little difference. He has learned that you can do a thing, you can dress it up, you can rationalize it, you can do all that is necessary to make it palatable, but it does little to change the fact that _you have done it_, past tense, unalterable, willingly and deliberately, one's reasons become incidental no matter the voracity of your convictions.

It was with no small amount of jealously, then, that he watched, an unwilling observer, as she began to move closer to Danny, evermore likeminded, their friendship becoming stronger, their bond something he began to envy. It was Danny who, more appalling to admit, in his ability to understand Ruth better than he, who had become an obstacle, to Harry, obscuring the path to his prize, his right to have her. The guilt at his selfish relief, _relief for bloody sake_, when they were separated by his death, the bond irretrievably broken, was overwhelming, sickening, and very nearly bucked him. Lacking foresight of a nature that told of such things, he only understood the moment, his immediate moment, and thus had yet to face the shame of Danny's death, allowing the jealousy to fester and beat about him, becoming evermore a part of him concerning Ruth. He could confess a thousand sins, beg for a thousand absolutions, and he would never wash himself clean of that self-realization. He was, he knew, in his darkest heart, a ruthless bastard, wanting what he wanted, taking it when not given, manipulating, entitled. It's what made him a good, no, legendary spy.

He had, subsequently, relinquished his right to deniability, for her, and the image he wanted her to have of him, another manipulation of sorts, coloring the facts in his favor, fixing the game. Still, they had used the girl, and by doing so, had broken her father, had saved nameless citizens, but they _had used the girl_, put her in play, tainted her innocence, the sacrifice necessary, he rationalized then, he justifies still. That she would not forget was a certainty, as was his certainty she would, however, forgive him. It was her nature, her ability to empathize, her compassion, the very foundation her entire being was built upon. Her intelligence allowed her to see his position, if not embrace it, and in this, she offered absolution without meaning, forgave because she did not know how to continue otherwise, even as she would be wise not to forget the man, the particular kind of moral ambiguity necessary to make these kinds of unimaginable decisions. In his heart, he knew she would do well to discern how that kind of pressure can warp and soil a man's soul, irrevocably, even as he hoped that she would never, ever examine it too closely, her mind a dangerous trap from which he had no hope to escape clean and fresh.

That he would allow her to question him, argue his choices and decisions, manipulate her way into his head, granting her access to decisions yet made, influencing the outcome was not something he could, with any level of certainty, guarantee continue should Adam replace him, but it was increasingly obvious that it was needed, that one voice asking _is this right, can we justify this, can we still look at ourselves in the mirror? _He had no choice but to throw the interview, he told himself, because he couldn't be sure Adam would be reined in, by anyone. Privately, he knew he threw it in part because he wasn't yet ready to give up the thrill of the grid, despite the decisions, the horrors and tortures that walked his nightmares, but, sadly, pathetically, because he was not yet ready to leave her, to give up the rare moments they shared, the way he could watch her through his office windows, the way she knew how he liked his tea. How she, apparently, noticed that he paced, wondered if he would forget them, that she had been watching him all along, covert and sly, it was, fortifying, and he entirely unworthy. He thought of the day he saw her waiting for the bus not long after the EERE exercise, horribly cold day, rain in sheets, and she waiting, set apart from the others, and he in the comfort of his chauffeured car. Always set apart, yet appearing somehow serene, content, and his heart stuttered a bit, squeezed in recognition their shared solitude, and she so young, he nearly asked Dave to pull over, to offer a ride, to offer comfort, but the car pulled forward, and he lost sight of her, and he thought to himself, another time, maybe. Another time. He couldn't leave, abandon her to the cold and rain again, so he threw the interview.

And, she went on her date.

And, the seed began to pulse, ever stronger.


	5. Chapter 5

_"__My father's love was always strong,_

_My mother's glamour lives on and on,_

_Yet still inside I felt alone,_

_For reasons unknown to me._

_But if you send for me you know I'll come,_

_And if you call for me you know I'll run._

_I'll run to you, I'll run to you, I'll run, run, run._

_I'll come to you, I'll come to you, I'll come, come, come."_

-LanaDel Rey, Old Money

_"__And I hear your words that I made up,_

_You say my name like there could be an us._

_I best tidy up my head, I'm the only one in love,_

_I'm the only one in love."_

_-_Adele, Melt My Heart To Stone

**Gods and Monsters**

**Chapter V**

It was a miserable way to join the team, poached from Six simultaneous to Danny's death, but Zaf weathered the circumstances with more tact than he would have expected from one so young, proving the changing times in his ancestry a widely sought after commodity. Danny had made his choice, provoking his own execution, sacrificing himself to save Fiona, to save Adam the torture of having to choose between them. He often finds himself wondering if Danny's life began ticking down the moment he had pleaded with Zoe to leave, embrace exile, save herself, live a life more real than she would have opportunity otherwise. It seemed to him Danny's pleas, as he had listened, had willed her to see the sense of exile, were entreaties for them both, that through her, he would achieve some measure of normalcy just beyond his fingertips, as though he knew he would never get out alive. No pasture for Danny, but a name scarring the wall. We lost Sam as well, needing to be sedated, unable to process the limitless hazards, incapable of reconciling that our turns come by whim, not reason, happenstance as a car crash, whether we survive, or die, up to the fates.

She had demanded to accompany him, refusing to relinquish her chance to see him, believing him still alive while her eyes could not yet hold him. Telling herself that it wasn't real until she was stood next to him, a response, however ill founded, he understood well. She spoke briefly, to tell him of the pledge they had made to one another, after the Forestall debacle, that they would always be there for one another, regardless of circumstance, danger, fear, that they would never let the other down. How could he have denied her the fulfillment of her word, of her vow spoken? That she had stayed at her post, flinching as the gunshot rang out over comms, dazed, staring as Sam dissolved, wailing from the depths of shock, but remaining, as true to her vow, never abandoning him.

Small, such a tiny, vulnerable thing, hugging herself as they left the grid, her grief was palpable, and he was forced to reconcile that, for him, and perhaps him alone, the deaths of those under him, while uncomfortable, had become something of an expectation, one in which he'd accustomed himself almost from the moment of first introduction. This one will die, too, perhaps soon, perhaps not, but best not to get too close, care too much, feel, love. Numbing, his years spent in the service, a survival mechanism, the cloak of protection he draped about himself without fail. Until her. Until he watched at a distance, as she carefully and with a delicate sense of reverence revealed Danny's face, gently caressing him, speaking softly, attempting to comfort someone who was already gone, attempting to absolve and comfort herself in the process. He wanted nothing more than to envelope her within his cloak of protection, to whisper in her ear the secrets of being numb, the relief found when the expected eventually became reality, an obscene need to harden her because her visible pain was more than he could bear, skirting his cloak, burrowing into his subconscious, thawing his heart.

Driving back into London, she did not speak, and he allowed the silence to continue, uncomfortable for him, irrelevant to her. She was staring into the pastoral expanse before her, registering little of it's beauty, her tears having dried, but she was dangerously far away, her eyes red and glazed, her mind elsewhere, perhaps with Danny, perhaps her father, both, he could not guess. Two dead men whom she had loved and cared for, who shared the same surname. Two Daniels taken from her too soon, leaving her behind to grieve, alone. He had reached across the divide, gently grasping her hand, bringing it to his lips, just brushing the surface of her palm, placing it between them, done before he had thought to think, before he had time to consider if she would welcome his touch. She had not pulled away, had chosen to remain connected to him, the fingertips of her left hand absently brushing the top of his, her attempt at self comfort, a connection he told himself prevented her from spiraling away into the darker depths waiting for her arrival. His silent vow, so like Danny's, becoming the anchor she needed, seeking to replace the safe haven she had lost with his death. Silently contemplating, he comported his face to hide the sense of victory he was experiencing, his thoughts a betrayal of Danny, of himself, of her. Death, the great equalizer, walked the periphery of their connection, he and Ruth's, and he tried not to identify the crumbling foundation, ignored the truth of what it signified, the outcome it demanded, the moments of affection bought by the cost of fatal losses, real or imagined. Instead, he drove, allowing the ripples of electricity to pass along his arm, memorizing the feel of her light touch, her fingertips, scarring his heart with her name, even as Danny's was added to the scars deep inside Thames House.

"These things we see, Harry, the decisions we make, I can't...I don't see where we...Do we make a difference...Does his death...Harry..." the last on a sigh, her face crumbling, tears sliding down her cheeks anew, her hand still held in his, and he had pulled the car over, lifting the center console, pulling her into his arms as her body shook with grief, as she poured out her pain, her face buried into his neck, his arms securely around her. Her lips had found his pulse, and she drew a deep breath, inhaled him, his mouth on her hair, her forehead, overwhelmed by her proximity and his need to feel her, consume her grief and pain, desperate for her know she was not alone, desperate for her to stay tethered to him. Holding her face, gazing into her eyes, memorizing every line, every imperfection, caressing them in his thoughts, he made promises, blundering and rushed, one after the other, securing the tenuous connection keeping her present, with him. There will be time to grieve, he had vowed, he will not be forgotten in this, _his sacrifice had meaning_, denying the truth of his understanding of _meaning_, denying his arrogance in grasping the opportunity of having her, to himself, without encumbrance. Denying, too, his ability to fulfill them lay beyond his grasp, a considerable absence from his skills and talents proven with consistent frequency, his spoken vows, empty, hollow words without substance, as undefined as Mr. Shadow himself.

"Can we stop? I really...I could use a drink. I can't face the grid, not like th..this. Not now." Her eyes red, swollen, their color a combination not yet identified, and he remembers thinking how it was that a woman's eyes after crying become a color so striking, so intense and foreign that it can make a man's heart stop from the urge to drown in them? He knew better than to acquiesce, well versed in his susceptibility to the draw of situations illicit and dangerous, shivers tickling his lower spine a symptomatic tell, the heat rising and spreading across his chest, his better angels silenced in the onslaught of coursing adrenaline. Yet Death, their constant companion, had forged this opportunity, and his callous, desensitized heart could not deny serendipity, nor the demands of selfishness, his ruthless nature refusing to be denied. He could have simply driven directly to her home, releasing her from returning with him to Thames House, releasing her from his grasp to grieve alone, _it is enough today, Ruth, rest yourself, love,_ but found himself unable, physically incapable of passing the first pub he could find, turning roughly at the last moment, ushering her to a table in the back. It was suitably dark, sparsely inhabited at that hour, and, in his recollection, perfect given the circumstances.

"Hmmm, Jameson's rocks. Double, please," removing her coat, sliding into the booth, she looked tired, drained, and altogether beautiful to him. Warring with himself, his fantasies and day dreams falling, one by one, pale victims of his sense of self, his very nature considerably more similar to the malignant seed reposing in his revived heart, demanding failure, demanding status quo results, reminding him he deserved no more, and so much less. He told himself he was not taking advantage, he had not manipulated this, and would have been successful, his sense of justification solidifying, but for his treacherous heart, it's venomous dialogue a refrain as he returned to her, _you are mine, Mr. Shadow, in this act, in this lie, you are my fatal twin._

"Ruth, I know you and Danny were close, and this..." Settling himself, ignoring the deleterious refrain, even then, flowing unrepentant through his consciousness.

"I don't want to talk about Danny, right now, not now, if that's all right, with you?" Said in a rush as one would after anticipating the necessity, relieved to have done with.

"Of course." She was rubbing her forehead, eyes closed, as though in doing so she could forget all that she knew, erase the pain of it. Eventually lowering her hand, she had begun dragging the water droplets from her glass in circles on the tabletop, forming infinity signs with the moisture, "Did you like your birthday present?"

"My birthday?...Oh, yes, yes I did. Very much. Though I shudder to think of the cost, Ruth." She had hidden four bottles of my favorite scotch, and had written her initials on the top of each. At the time, if he remembers accurately, he was halfway through the "R" bottle, thinking of her with every sip consumed, as though every swallow was drinking her, ingesting her, allowing her inside.

She smiled, eyes still closed, and tilted her head slightly, and he was overcome with the urge take her in his arms, rest her head on his shoulder, but refrained from doing so, the moment so delicate, so precious, he was loathe to disrupt it, to do anything which might break the spell.

"My father's name was Daniel. It means _God is my judge_ in Hebrew. Did you know that? If God is your only judge, rather leaves the field of opportunity wide open, doesn't it?" Leaning back into the booth, her hand on her tumbler, a Mona Lisa smile on her face, her secrets, her meaning her own.

"Tell me about your father, Ruth." Rolling her name on his tongue, tasting it, like a prayer.

Sighing deeply, "He was a doctor, but you already know that." Looking directly at him, her eyes penetrating, daring him to deny he'd read her file. "He was a good man, honest, and gone too soon. I wonder, sometimes, if he would have been proud of me, of what I have become. His death was...very difficult, sudden..." Leaning her head back again, exposing the length of her neck, he can see her pulse beating, a faint shiver, wanting nothing more in that moment but to place his lips against it. Death, as always, his companion with Ruth, a twisted Cyrano de Bergerac to their Christian and Roxane.

"I think he would have been. You are an exceptional...you are a very rare find, Ruth." His voice hoarse, his throat closing as the words pass, his thoughts spiraling away, defiant in their lack of chastity, defiant of his considerable will to remain innocuous despite his internal pestilence.

"We promised each other, we promised never to become so jaded, so bitter and alone, like Andrew, so detached that we could no longer feel anything, see the beauty that surrounds us...everyday..." Sipping from her tumbler, brows furrowed, trying to divine meaning, see the pattern through the maze of irreconcilable circumstances.

It took a moment for him to realize she was referring to Danny Hunter, then another as he remembered during his debrief Danny had warned him of his concern for Ruth, his apprehension regarding her gentle nature surviving the onslaught of terror, the choices, the things we see and do. She had watched someone she knew, had known, had not known at all, suffocate, the life squeezed from him in his greed, his hand reaching for her, a silent plea before falling still. His eyes had stayed on her, clouding over as his body shut down, organ by organ, dominoes triggering the next, the orchestration of dying, and she, an unwilling witness, rendered immobile, had wept for him, the loss of his genius and promise, the contagion that had grown to consume his soul. Danny had included it all in his debrief, an absolution, a prayer, a warning, a prophecy.

"I...sometimes I feel parts of me closing off. It's as though I'm there, but distant, an observer, beyond reach, watching the parts darken, little bits and pieces of myself, getting smaller, and then nothing, but, so strange, it's loud, the darkness, so mind numbingly loud that I just want it to stop...stop ringing." He sees the fear, the panic in her eyes, her revelation drawn from the depths of her, laid out before him, her understanding that we all, inside, are mere moments from giving in to the darkness, a few disappointments away from becoming Andrew Forestall, and he reaches to still her fidgeting hands, holding them firmly in his, drawing her towards him slightly, gently fortifying the tether, linking them even as her words attempt to disengage and destroy.

"Stay with me, Ruth." It was a plea. It was a prayer. It was his deepest desire, and his greatest fear. "Don't go away, don't hide alone in the darkness. Don't make that mistake. You deserve, you're worth so much more. Stay with me. Here. Now. Ruth." Hushed, his breath warming her cheek, his hands tightening around hers.

She had turned her head, responding from the distance, her eyes large, clouded, and he leaned forward, placing his lips against the slight furrow between her eyebrows, _I see you, Ruth,_ feeling her exhale against his throat, her body relax, her muscles settling, her hand pulling away from his, finding it's way to his neck, the tips of her fingers divining his increased pulse, her lips whispering against the hollow just above his loosened tie, drawing her back from despondency, guiding her back softly, his mind filled with her, _I see you, Ruth, I see all of you, I understand more than you know._

Unable to stop himself, his entire body humming with recognition, like finding like, he leaned down, kissing her neck as he helped her with her coat, her warmth, her scent mining in him a familiarity so powerful he had to grasp her shoulders to keep from swaying. And she, leaning back into him, her forehead turned just under his chin, standing together, time spanning and lost, and his malignant heart grateful for death, for the losses that brought to him, them, that moment, the seed smiling a deceiver's welcome.

Four days later, a mere hiccup, a benign blip in the eternity of time, he failed her, even as he could still recall the smell of her hair, and the feel of her forehead against his lips, he failed her.

"I need you," he had said, leaning close, breathing her in, and in that moment, as he watched, her breathing shallow, the skin tightening around her eyes, her desire to grieve waring with her desire to perform as expected, as he demanded, as he _needed_, giving way as she succumbed to him, replaced her desire to properly grieve with his need for her, his supremacy was established. He knew, in that very moment, he had achieved victory, but, as his malignant heart reminded, the seed bursting, victorious with darker intentions, _you, Mr. Shadow, have only begun to lose this war._

The catalyst of his failure took the form of_ Shining Dawn. _Ironic, he reflects, that he, the personification of that group's fanatical and twisted mission statement, the man who uses the death of a colleague as a sign his affection for another is fated, his actions justified, that _he_ should be the one tasked to stop them. Laughable, a dark, sardonic comedy of errors, made more so by the arrival of Juliet Shaw. Sleek, feline, and ruthless to her very core, Juliet swept in, and he watched, apprehensive, as life's indifferent wheel revolved full circle without the power to prevent it.

Liaising with the cousins, attempting to prevent several bombs from detonating under excruciating time constraints, incorporating Juliet into the action left him both scrambling to remove Ruth from the immediate vicinity, and resentful at the prolonged loss of her calming presence. He had hastily, though loathe to have her beyond his protective wing, instructed Adam to send her off grid, to pick the brain of Stephen Curtis, an idol of Michael Monroe's, Shining Dawn's leader, and while the intelligence she had gleaned was to become the definitive key to dismantling the group's intentions, a final devastating bomb, his decision to do so reflected, primarily, his eagerness to prevent any interaction between she and Juliet, the security of the realm falling a distant second. Who was it that said, _When it rains, it pours?_ Had she not been so successful with Professor Curtis, he might have been spared watching as both she and Juliet interrogated Monroe's right hand puppet, observing them, within feet of one another, and wondering, not for the first time, how he had ever thought, for even a moment, he had been in love with Juliet, that either one of them were capable of bringing to the surface something other than treachery in the other. Not love, never love, the blackmailing, treacherous bitch.

Ruth, alternatively, composed and poised in the midst of terrorism, calmly connecting, drawing the hints to form a picture, incandescent to his eyes, her inherent goodness making her a woman made to love, treasure, die for.

In the quiet of his car, he concludes he owes Michael Monroe and his band of genius misfits a debt of gratitude, one destructive tumor to another, for without their misguided and devious sense of right and wrong, Ruth would not have been sent into the field, and neither Adam nor he would be confident in her potential, her hidden strengths, her unfathomable depths. So too, Juliet's presence, evidence of the macabre sense of humor fashioned by the gods, for lacking his desperate need to keep them apart, Adam would have found himself short a tree branch, adding another name to an already extravagantly scarred wall.

He had conducted her debrief, his mind half distracted by Juliet's threat of blackmail, her desire to remain in London made plain, the lengths to ensure it's actuality detailed unmercifully, and he was reminded of the weaknesses the softer emotions within the species can unhinge, the damage done when allowed release from the controlled captivity of self restraint. Compromised by actions over fifteen years in the past, his deserving consequence, of course, because it is a deserving man who foolishly ignored the past which never slumbered, but remained within him, a parasite feeding into the present, never sated. She did not bother to hide her distaste for Professor Curtis, _smug, elitist, pontificating prat _figured prominently in description and evaluation, she nevertheless held the glassy stare of a successful field operative, and he had nodded, only half listening, watched the characteristic adrenaline as it drove her on.

He had understood, as the words passed Juliet's lips, _love, careless love_, voluntary resignation remained his only option. So it was, then, not the scarred wall for Harry Pearce, but pasture and disgrace. Ironic, love proving to be his undoing as well, like Tom before him, bettered by one underestimated by him, lurking in his past, awaiting an opportunity to pounce, simultaneous to his heart daring again, peeking around the walls he'd painstakingly erected, knowing her without knowing at all. And while he regretted his choice, regretted the sudden, unexpected end of his vaulted career, the voluntary sacrifice of what had become his life's meaning and duty, it was the additional, necessary loss of her that struck him most deeply. The viciousness of that fact, tearing through his thoughts, feeding his enmity and bitterness, the malevolent seed demanding satisfaction,_ did I not warn you, who are you but a man, pathetic and yearning as an infant?_ _This is what comes of vulnerability_, _had you forgotten, were you not told?_

He had offered her a ride home, out of courtesy, and she had surprised him by accepting, uncharacteristic, interpreted as a sign to come clean with her, an opportunity to tell her of his predicament, to wash himself clean while providing her the tools to turn from him, judge him, forsake him as was necessary, as was required. Parked outside hers, he had felt her watching him, as he'd studied his gloved hands still tightened around the steering wheel, squeezing, releasing, over, and again.

"Ruth, I..."

"Come inside, Harry," opening the door, she had stepped out, had already unlocked her front door and entered by the time he had exited, her certainty that he would follow established in failing to close the door behind her. He did, of course, and was slightly bemused as he acknowledged he had been incapable of doing otherwise. He remembers smiling a bit as he walked the hallway, peering around doors, seeing the organized chaos that he had come to associate with Ruth, her habitat so much a reflection of her, chaotic, unpredictable, inasmuch as his own home reflected his iron fisted self restraint, searching for the room she had chosen, eventually locating her in the kitchen.

She had already poured them both a tumbler of whiskey, his significantly more in proportion to hers. She had casually motioned for him to sit, and as he selected the chair next to hers, had slid his drink towards him, watching him over the rim of hers as she leaned back, her movements fluid and confident. He could still see the telltale signs of adrenaline, fading slightly, but still present to his trained eye, and wondered how much of her countenance was down to the fading rush, steeling himself to bid her a gratuitous be well and goodbye. Mr. Shadow, there, gone, never was.

"I'm going to have to do something tomorrow. I'm left no option, really. It's my own fault," sighing, shaking my head at the crap timing, the wheel turning, "Time's come to face the proverbial music." Downing the contents in one, reaching for the bottle, his conscience ringing in his ears, _careful, Harry, softly, softly._

"It seems..."

"Juliet." Interrupted, a statement, rather than question, a simple prod to get to the point, or a technique to avoid hearing of her, either, both, he couldn't be certain. Her face revealed nothing, no clues to what she was thinking, no tells to aid him, navigating her mind, her intentions as a blind man navigating an unfamiliar terrain, his imagination the fingertips, delving.

"We had a...an alliance once, a long time ago. It's left me a bit compromised. More than a bit, if I'm honest. She wants to stay in the UK, with the service, and, well blackmailing me to ensure it." Swirling the contents before taking a deep swallow, wanting to wash his mouth of it, the memory, the words, the shame, the guilt and regret, not daring to look at her.

"Did you love her?" Culling the intelligence, no surprise, forming the picture in her mind, the conclusions to be drawn remaining with her until she had exhausted every possibility, sucked the marrow and discarded the bone, clinical in her approach, sharp as a scalpel's blade.

_Jesus Christ. _

"At the time, maybe..." His frustration getting the better of him, he snapped at being invaded, dissected, even as he felt the hypocrisy of it, rich and luxurious, his own worst enemy. Had it been Tom who had provoked me, _physician heal thyself? _And in that act of confession, to her, had that not been exactly what he told himself he was doing, the lie he had asked himself to swallow without offense, as though he was not the man he knew himself to be, down deep, where the truth festers extravagantly?

"Christ, Ruth, I don't bloody know, maybe I loved her, maybe I loved the thrill of it, maybe I loved a thorough, hard fuck with someone I could talk myself into caring for, or not at all, maybe I loved that I saw myself reflected in her, another ruthless, maliciously cruel and empty mirror of myself, an act of soul crushing masturbation, I don't fucking know the answer to that!"

She had physically flinched from his words, withdrawn her eyes to her whiskey, as yet untouched, her breathing audible, and he had wished the outburst, the cruelty of it, both, back into his mouth, unspoken rather than be forced to watch the effect they had, drawing first blood, as she retreated to her corner, wounded.

"God, Ruth...I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"No. I understand. I do, Harry," his name on her lips, soft, mesmerizing, infinite, unfolding herself from the distance of withdrawal. "You regret her, you regret your actions and feelings..."

"I never loved her, I never did...Not then, and bloody well not now."

"But you _do_ regret her, and if I'm understanding you correctly, you're planning on doing something...tomorrow...that is a consequence of that feeling. As if, by doing it, you reclaim some measure of control. But you can't, Harry. You can't ever control the past." Chewing her lip, her face a picture of apprehension and interest, deliberating whether to continue, resolving to dare.

"What is the something, Harry?"

"Offer my resignation." He had said it, matter of fact, blunt, as unalterable as the past that haunted him. A stricken look flashed across her face, and he is shamed to admit he enjoyed the idea she should be stricken by his absence, that it should cause her anguish, a poor chess move in a previously fixed game, punishing her for making it easier for him, always.

"Because of an indiscretion over fifteen years ago? That's a bit of an overreaction? I mean surely..." Her eyes sharp, indignant at the suggestion, she had, he knew, already began an outline in her head, designed the step by step process necessary to dismantle Juliet's attack, and he half wished he could allow her to act, his heart near to bursting at her vehement display of loyalty, his baser urges welcoming the opportunity to watch Juliet squirm uncomfortably under Ruth's deadly focus. It was, after all, the nature of infection to travel silently, traversing the body, liberating toxins to destroy and plunder, one weak moment, one single opening, and all that is healthy and good deteriorates in the face of such seduction, eroding and unrecognizable, a shadow of desolation foretold in the first deliberate act against conscience. _No, he vowed to himself, not Ruth._

"There's more, Ruth...and I'm afraid I can't tell you all of it. It was the operation we were involved in, sanctioned, but off the books...if it were just the _indiscretion_ I wouldn't bother, I can assure you."

"So, what, she wins, then? You're just going to let her do this?"

"There are no victors in this kind of war, I'm afraid. Everyone loses, it's just a matter of degrees." Smiling at her gently, tilting his head, he felt lighter somehow, relieved without the ability to identify exactly why, but deliciously at peace, the afterglow, he assumed, of having become resolved to one's circumstances.

"You are to do nothing, do you understand?" To his ear, his tone was light, a bit teasing, the smile he wore decorating the words as they came forward, disguising the panic he felt at keeping her uninvolved, untainted, beyond the muck he swam in, wanting his memory of her to remain untouched by his infected existence. She deserved her brilliant future, he rationalized.

"Harry..."

"I'll have your word on that, if you don't mind. Please, Ruth." He had chuckled a bit, for the necessity of extracting a promise of no joy as much as for the face of disapproval she made. It served to remind him of how very young she was, reverting to an angst addled countenance better suited to sullen teenagers, than the flourishing woman who so frequently occupied his thoughts.

"Fine." Huffing, exasperation clear and projected, slouching back into her seat, as resigned as he to the coming events, picking absently at the tablecloth before her.

And despite himself, despite his reasoning, his knowing better, his intended purpose, he couldn't bring himself to voice the consequence left unspoken, the reality of this goodbye, he, soon to become a new inhabitant of the multitudes, reborn and renamed, fresh from defeat, and she to the darkness that awaited at Thames House, unprotected.

He would look back on this moment with regret, he knew, lined up for the choosing with so many others, trotted out to torture without recourse, as he gazed at her, unselfconsciously, drinking her in as he sipped her whiskey, in the warmth of her kitchen, surrounded by the comfort of her belongings, the comfort of her presence, his new existence bereft of her, passing but never again making contact. Forbidden, he would become one of the disavowed and she his illicit obsession, denied his touch, his comfort, his protection, and the effort to suppress his fury at Juliet for destroying what had barely yet begun was Herculean, draining him to his very core as he desperately tried to maintain his composure, preserve the moment as bittersweet, rather than allow it to be destroyed, dripping with his bitterness.

And as they chatted amicably, having agreed, mutually, or so he had thought, the matter was settled, he began to think it could have been so good, with her, the possibilities dancing across his thoughts, flushed with fecundity, all that he had ever dared hope for. His heart, an internal betrayer, yearning to tell her what she had awakened in him, the gift she had brought him, before he disappeared into the ether, so that she would know however much she felt alone, untethered, she was with him, always and forever, anchored in his heart as no other before her.

It was, as he often thinks of it, a first date of sorts, unplanned and unexpected, resplendent with conversation and connection, they became comfortable in each other's company, delicately divining the other, relaxing into topics, revealing in fits and bursts. There was laughter, her nose crinkling adorably when she thought something equally amusing _and_ off color, wine after the whiskey, moments spent foraging for food, clumsy, unintentional contact, hands, fingers, shoulders, their inhibitions set aside in the haze as alcohol's warm effect resonated within them. He had been happy, in those few short hours, in a way he couldn't remember ever experiencing before, or had simply forgotten in the expanse of time, Smiling, he remembers the feeling coming as a shock, his system had shuddered with uncertainty, and he had attempted to aline it with something, anything, to categorize it, examine it, while his sense of control, his carefully constructed safety net struggled to reassert itself, wildly rejected in favor of an altogether unidentifiable emotion, once felt, impossible to willingly relinquish.

Foolish man, staring down at her upturned face, the evening with her drawing to a close, his sense of loss keen, pulsing through him, focused on reining in his urge to kiss her, to feel her lips on his, to pass his tongue along the ridges, tasting, savoring, for the first and last time before disappearing, his sacrifice of her a physical vibration resonating through his broken soul.

She had leaned up, placing a kiss on his cheek, whispering, "I wish you would reconsider, let me help you..." Her lips tickling his earlobe, her hand lightly resting on his chest, remaining there, her breathing warm on his neck, the hair on the back of his neck raised in response, as she waited, very close, _too bloody close_, for his reply.

He was lost in the scent of her, surprised by the bold physical contact, what could have been interpreted as an unspoken invitation, should he decide, and his body stirred in response, his cock tingling, seductive, illicit, forbidden, all melding together in a rush of unconsummated lust and yearning, making his head ring, wanting only to carry her upstairs and lovingly explore every inch of her, taking his time, languid, relishing the gift of her body.

"No, Ruth." Placing his hands on her shoulders, squeezing even as he drew himself away from her, smiling sadly, "You already have helped me. You have." Kissing her forehead, chaste, knowing time had begun ticking down the moment he arrived, counting off the minutes, measuring the moments he had left against the moment he possessed no more, resignation accepted, a Mr. Never-Was waiting to be born.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry?" Something in her tone, subtle, easily overlooked, but he had heard it, and his heart identified it as regret, like recognizing like, and he believed it possible that she would regret his loss as he would hers, that she knew, without needing to be told he would fade into the background, one of the masses, protected at all costs, anonymous.

"Yes, Ruth, tomorrow. You take care, yes?"

She had nodded, smiling, but in her eyes he had glimpsed dread, and the mask she wore, dropping a bit before closing the door behind him, could not hide her doubt and unease. And he, left standing in the darkness, silently wishing he could take it all back, yet, oddly comforted, knowing in his lifetime of deplorable, reprehensible moments, he would come to understand this as a single moment for redemption of deeds past, he had, at long last, despite his nature, his baser instincts, chosen correctly. He had released her.

As he drove home, he had congratulated himself, so full of wonder that he had overcome his inherently poisonous instincts, saving her, and himself to an extent, in the process, his demons silenced for a precious few moments, his slumber deep and uninterrupted for the first time in many years. How was he to know, then, the demons were simply resting, planning a strategy, awaiting the moment to unveil themselves for the recommencement, the ceremony he knew by rote? How was he to know all that would come?

How was he to know, then, it had been only a rehearsal for their first goodbye?

**_***In this chapter I tried to come up with plausible ways in which Harry would begin to see Ruth as receptive and aware of his attentions, but still somewhat in keeping with the series. To me, the two of them having a drink after identifying Danny's body seemed in keeping with a gathering of friends, and toasts, etc. It also seemed rather likely that with Juliet back, Harry would be rather more keen to keep their (she and Ruth's, perhaps his own, too) interactions to a minimum, and a late night debrief, leading to a ride home did not feel like I was stretching it. In all, I felt the circumstances I came up with plausible if viewed through the scope of colleagues dealing with difficult circumstances in any workplace, the personal affections aside, and provided a good opportunity for them to become a bit more familiar with one another as colleagues verging on friendship. I also took liberties in making Ruth more bold and forward, but not so much she became, IMHO, unrecognizable. Reviews make me smile, and are always appreciated. Thank you all who have taken the time, your effort is altogether humbling for me. _**


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N_**_: This chapter revolves entirely around 4.5 because I thought that the first episode to overtly address Harry's growing attachment, and Ruth's ability to see past the walls he uses to hide himself, and his more vulnerable aspects. Also, the phone call early in the episode never fails to make me laugh, and thus is provided here, all credits due KUDOS/BBC. _**

**_I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to review, particularly r4ven3 for your very kind words as regards chapter 5, and to those "guests" who leave reviews-as a former guest myself, I enjoyed a great many authors/fics, but it was _****_Hook, Line, and Sinker _****_ that was so exceptional, (70 plus chapters-what!) to me that it was my first review, and the impetus for my becoming a member, and trying my hand after a very long time. So, thank you, Airgead for your unintended, much appreciated, inspiration. I actually feel rather bad that I didn't review all the works that I have enjoyed, in no small part because I never understood the importance until I found myself waiting for the same. Please consider this my blanket thank you for every single effort each of you have put forth, and enjoy!_**

**_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX _**

_"__If you could hear me love,_

_I'd tell you my story._

_To you and only you,_

_So love that you might save me._

_I woke up from a dream,_

_I woke up I was crying._

_I saw an animal,_

_With Eyes like mine on fire._

_I saw my own true love,_

_She was a sullen flower,_

_Was she forget-me-nots,_

_White Lillies or red roses._

_And then from far way,_

_Who's that I see come riding,_

_Upon a pale white horse,_

_Come riding fast as lightning._

_Oh, if you can hear me love,_

_I'd tell you my story,_

_So that you might save me._

_So that you might save me,_

_So that you might save me."_

_*_The Gutter Twins, All Misery/Flowers*

_"__It's you, it's you, it's all for you,_

_Everything I do._

_I tell you all the time,_

_Heaven is a place on earth with you, _

_Tell me all the things you wanna do._

_I heard that you like the bad girls,_

_Honey, is that true?_

_It's better than I ever even knew,_

_They say that the world was built for two._

_Only worth living if somebody is loving you,_

_Baby, now you do._

*Lana Del Rey, Video Games*

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**GODS and MONSTERS**

**Chapter VI**

Still riding the high from the previous evening spent with Ruth, euphoric with the knowledge that he had, in those few short hours, been tested, his nature provoked, wanting to succumb, wanting to take her, soil her, infect her, sink himself deep inside her warmth and reveal themselves to one another, but he had abstained, stepped back from the void, met it eye to eye, smiling as he released her from his claws, his moment of redemption realized, and it was enough, more than, truthfully.

He had, subsequently, offered his resignation to the Home Secretary, reluctantly detailing the cause without revealing Juliet's part in his decision, and was, in a word, rebuffed, the Home Secretary's refusal to accept presented in a calm, but firm, denial. Despite his assertion that Juliet Shaw was a, quote, ruthless, untrustworthy, right-wing crazy who will stop at nothing, deliberately leaving out _who is blackmailing me whilst stroking the PM, proper duplicitous lick-spittle that she is, _she was, nevertheless, named National Security Coordinator, and to his absolute vexation, became, with the stroke of a single extravagant pen, one of a few supervisors he was immediately subject to.

The fates, with their macabre sense of humor never failed to surprise, their endless avenues of attack, their ingenuity, frustrating him by reestablishing this albatross around his neck for want of entertainment, Pandora's Box a play thing to be volleyed about to amuse and delight. And, as expected, she became a thorn in his side from the moment she assumed her post, predictable as taxes, and just as bloody interfering and annoying.

His saving grace, the point on which he meditated with alarming frequency, smoothing his ruffled feathers, soothing his festering resentment of Juliet's continued presence and position, his evening with Ruth, unparalleled in his concentration and focus, the entirety of his immediate future evolving, in his darkest heart, to include her in an increasingly inappropriate way. Staggering, the moments within a day she came to mind, his memory of her breath in his ear, the warmth of her cheek against his lips, and inevitable that his interpretation would begin, quite unconsciously, to embrace the moments they had shared at her front door as an invitation for him to pursue her, receptive and welcoming. In his daydreams he came to believe she was, her lips against his ear, panting, trembling for him to touch her, and while she had not actually behaved thus, his fantasies had been unleashed from forced slumber, resuscitated, alert, the results kaleidoscopic in colors and rich with embellishments.

In his darker, more disconsolate moments, he found himself angry he had not availed himself a shower in his office, and began to close his blinds with greater frequency, a vain effort, he knew with absolute certainty, to block his line of sight to her, preventing her from becoming more incapacitating, desperate to continue his victory over the eyes that beckoned from deep within the void, sirens calling to his nature, hypnotizing and demanding, the language of his desolate heart pouring from the murky depths. And, she, innocently unaware of his desperate efforts, barging without knocking, breathless with some new piece of intelligence, assaulting his senses, luminous, flush, his dream in flesh, his nightmare taunting.

They had not, in the time he began referring to as between then and now, endeavored further into their developing friendship, and in his deliberate dismissal, his denial that evening, and every day that laboriously followed of anything beyond such, he began to appear more melancholic, behaving as though he had suffered some great loss unidentified to the greater whole of those present around him. Short in temper, callous and cutting in commentary, the sudden death of Clive McTaggart shook him to his very foundation, the conclusion drawn to that of suicide an additional offense he was both hard pressed to accept and wrap his mind around, stoking his already simmering melancholy and disenchantment. In a rare nod to solidarity, he sought out Juliet and Roy Woodring, current head of Six, field colleagues, all, in years past, each offering tidbits of history, some known, some a revelation, all meant to help bid a fallen comrade farewell, safe passage.

Death, the hallmark of their curious union, the catalyst of every moment he treasured as fated for him, them, alone, drawing her to his side again, and his callous heart rejoicing, willing to suffer so many deaths if it meant she would remain tethered to him, next to him in the exchange, a life for their life together yet undetermined, his vile, immoral nature concluding it fair.

He remembered she had quietly crossed the threshold of his office, standing there, _stealthy little minx_, before he'd opportunity to notice, atypical for them both, and, momentarily catching him off guard, had inquired softly if he was okay. Unaccustomed as he had become to displays of concern for his wellbeing, he literally could not fathom an answer, the words lost to him, feelings alighted with her gentle way, her token of concern disquieting, bewildering, jarring and, _yes_, _God help him_, so terribly desired, staring at her, open faced, dumbfounded by the rush of foreign emotions thundering across his habitual state of weariness.

"If you need to talk, I'm available...Well, no, not availa...That's not what I meant to say. I'm willing to listen. No, that's...Not like a chore, I wouldn't look at it like...It's just that it helps, sometimes, to talk...Get it off my chest...Your chest, yours, my...my chest is fine, No, I'm...oh, shag it. A drink, with me, to talk, is all...or something. Or not. That would be fine, too." He'd identified the tells the moment she stopped speaking. Eyes closed, mouth dropped open, the "O" shape delighting him no end, shaking her head, the physical hallmarks of someone in the midst of an internal dialogue in the vein of _what the actual fuck did I just do?_ And, while evaluating her physical betrayals, his mind and nature confounding him with images of her chest, exposed, wonton, lush, he had, despite these considerable distractions, or possibly _because_ of them, managed to isolate three words, a refrain dancing gleefully in his consciousness. Drink. With. Me. _Drink with me. Drink with me._

_Oh, if only..._

He had spent an exorbitant amount of time during his evenings at home, customary drink in hand, surrounded by solitude, deafening, rationalizing his actions with Ruth in the period surrounding Danny's death. He had habitually vacillated between justifying his daring to place his lips on her, unbidden, venturing to hold her hand, an unsolicited caress, as merely physical expressions of comfort, an innocent attempt to keep her tethered, and damning himself for knowing his actions, while genuine in intent,_ maybe_, _who was he kidding_, were reflections of his baser needs, his lust and desire to conquer her, his truer self in evidence, his need for her to be present with him, to look at him in that way, that signature Ruth look that spoke to his ego, petting and smoothing his vanity, his self absorption, that sang clear and bright, you interest me, _I see you_.

It became part of the exercise that he ignore the glaring absences of similar behavior with others, part of the exercise that he consistently remind himself that his better angels were accessible to him, should he desire, but the dark void, the mirror by which he defined himself, knew his truer self, embraced by the treachery in his heart, repelled every justification his fecund mind could mine, laughed in the face of every rationalization used to pacify, and screamed from indefinable depths, _I see you, too. _

He'd declined her offer, added gratuitous reassurances that he was quite fine, thank you, though he appreciated the offer. He knew, as the words left his mouth, he would regret this as a missed opportunity, her silent acceptance, curt nod and concentration involving the patterns within his office carpeting all suggested, resoundingly, she would not be likely to risk another olive branch in the future. Though he knew it was the right decision, deemed it proper, the truth was he didn't trust himself alone with her, didn't trust he'd have the willpower to repeat his self denial, releasing her again seemed an impossibility. It was one thing to toast Danny, the two of them in an unnamed pub in an unfamiliar place, they had both known him, both mourned him in their individual ways, but Clive was unknown to her, and given the absence of an established familiarity with him, his desire to join Ruth for a drink was exactly that, a desire for a drink by any means available, Death his willing accomplice, Clive the incidental corpse and friend, yet necessary to propagate the lie. The obscenity of his thoughts both sickened him, and validated his decision to decline, distance himself from her as he had distanced himself from everyone, for their own good, for their own safety, for his peace of mind.

"Harry, you don't have to talk to me. That's...that's fine. Really, it is." She was speaking so softly, he'd found himself leaning forward, catching every other word despite his proximity, but her face suggested she was on the verge of another question, one she intuitively understood would cross a boundary between them, steeling herself before his eyes. He also knew that whatever it was she asked of him, he would answer, without question or delay, if only to keep her there with him, if only to extend this moment in time with her.

"Do you...Who is...Who is there for you, Harry? Who do you turn to when...When you need someone? Is there anybody who...?" She had left the remainder hanging between them, unspoken, but understood, afraid to breach protocol without being aware that he spent a fair portion of his waking moments imagining she would.

_Who do I turn to, for Christ's sake?_ How does she strike, with effortless consistency, straight to the center of my deepest insecurities and fears?

Well, _Johnny Walker Blue _was the short answer, the first that came to him, followed in short order by _nameless pull from a pub, wine,_ and, finally, _Scarlett. _He had chosen the lesser of all his coping evils, internally chiding himself for refusing her even as he applauded himself for his self restraint.

"Scarlett. She's the best listener, never interrupts me, doesn't judge, and knows how to keep a secret." He had smiled at her, his meager attempt at brevity, his bravado on full display, a rooster in full flourish.

"Oh, I see, of course," backing away, moving quickly, and his oversight occurred to him, so obvious he could have kicked himself, rushing to clarify before she escaped.

"Of course, she does have a tendency to sit on my lap and lick my nose, she leaves food all around where she eats,_ very sloppy eater_, she's a bit hairy, which isn't unattractive if you like that sort of thing, chews my socks, sometimes I have to brush her teeth, and she has a very offensive habit of licking her own ass, if I'm being honest. Ruth, Scarlett is my..."

"...Dog."

"...Dog."

Spoken simultaneously, she had giggled, adorably covering her mouth, her posture becoming the most beguiling _aw shucks, ya got me_ pose he had ever known, but it was the look of relief that lit up her face as she had first turned back to face him, as realization dawned with an emanating light that would rival a sunrise in his eyes, that there wasn't some women waiting for him, waiting to comfort him, waiting to make his pain go away, which made his lower spine begin to tingle, his fingertips itching to touch her, his instinct that she felt the same echoing throughout him. And the dark void, their unseen spectator, urging him forward, _she feels the same, mate_, it whispered, and his resolve to distance himself collapsed, folding in on itself, as though it had never even existed.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Her single request was a pub other than The George, _too many witnesses_, her voluntary reason, and he found himself struggling to control his immediate reaction to the illicit connotations, his nature acutely attuned to the deep-seated harmonious existence between his instincts and those situations inherently prohibited, unsanctioned, lurid. They had walked from Thames House, each maintaining a distance between them that suggested friendship, but not so much that it telegraphed merely colleagues, their hands brushing the back of the other's intermittently, but frequently enough to imply more than accidental. He was reminded of when he was a boy, mad for Rebecca Swanson, who ended up dating his best friend at the time, _what was his name, David, Daniel? Daniel. _The name struck him, serendipity having it's curious way, affecting him to such an extent that he slowed his pace, and she, having continued, turned, a question on her face, and he thinking only _surely another sign._

They had settled on The Hound, off the beaten path of those in the services, clandestine and rather seedy, but not in an altogether unpleasant way, dark and prone to catering to "regulars," the kind not unfamiliar to daylight hours spent with hands wrapped securely around alcohol of some form or another. The place, at least to his eye, seemed appropriate in a way he was unable to define, full, loud, and fortuitous that they had managed to capture the two remaining bar seats available. This was a place Clive would have frequented, sitting in a corner, his eyes bright and alert, watching without watching, evaluating, divining backstories, a participant without any effort to engage.

They ordered, and she had turned to him, a look of expectation on her face, waiting for him to begin, waiting for him to unmask and expose his pain, grief, his feelings of loss, he couldn't know exactly, his intention more alined with simply observing her.

"So, Scarlett," she volleyed, her eyes dancing with amusement, leaning far into him, her hand on his shoulder, drawing him closer "I wouldn't have guessed you a fan of Margaret Mitchell..."

"Then you would be..." But she was shaking her head, pointing to her ear and leaning in, gestures he had assumed meant she couldn't hear his reply. He had turned sideways in the stool, facing her, and placing his hand on her right arm, pulled her until she mirrored his position, facing one another. Acting on impulse, two anonymous people in a pub full of regulars after all, he slid his hands to the seat of her chair, dragging it towards him while simultaneously moving his left leg to allow for her right leg to fit securely between his, effectively establishing her proximity to as close to in his lap as would suit while both remained seated.

"Then you would be wrong," he repeated, leaning in next to her ear, one hand still grasping the side of her stool, his thumb absently caressing the side of her thigh, his mind occupied by how fluid it all seemed to him, natural, completely, utterly, devastatingly natural.

"Is this Harry Pearce? _The_ Harry Pearce admitting to a fondness for something Irish?" Her voice had dropped in tone, deep and seductively whiskey soaked, he could feel her smile close to his ear, leaning towards him, her hand on his knee for balance, causing an involuntary twitch along his inner thigh, delicious.

"I've been known to enjoy their whiskey on occasion." Pulling back, smiling, tilting his head to the left, regarding her as she considered his reply, hoping she wouldn't remove her hand from his knee, envisioning her moving it further up his thigh, feeling the pleasing tremors as they shivered towards his cock, knowing he was approaching dangerous territory, welcoming it's arrival and satisfaction.

Instead, she had leaned back, removed her hand, the imprint suddenly cold where it had lain, sipping her drink, watching him, the wheels turning behind her eyes, no hint of their mechanics or conclusions in the offing, her face content, serene, expectant. The potential this woman has is unfathomable, he remembers thinking, that her innate skill at knowing exactly when to approach and when to retreat, the push and pull of human connection, communication, completely unconscious, authentically a part of her make up. He'd concluded, in that moment, that he hadn't the strength to deny the urge to delve deep into her, to mine her for the riches she could offer up, to scrape her out from the inside and examine the totality of her contents, reverently, gently fondling each finding as it was revealed, taking her hand, asking that she plunge into the dark void with him.

"Scarlett." He didn't actually hear her, but had watched her mouth form the words, recalling her earlier question, her face reflecting a heightened awareness of the effect she was having, her eyes taking on a dark shine, and before he could stop himself, his cock beginning to stir, his pulse throbbing rhythmically along it's length, he had grasped both her legs behind her knees, drawing her forward to him, her bum sliding along her seat, leaning into her ear, breathing her name, rolling it on his tongue before releasing it.

"Ruth, brilliant, dark haired, light eyed women who refuse to conform to conventions continue to be a weakness of mine. One of very few, I might add." He had touched the tip of her ear lobe with his tongue, and she had shivered, dropping her head back slightly, Mona Lisa smile decorating her mouth, eyes closed, her right hand moving to cover his left, squeezing it as he squeezed her lower thigh. Staring into the abyss, moving too quickly and not quickly enough, her wanted to take her then and there, force her to reveal the meaning behind her smile, the secrets she kept hidden, demand to know if she was likeminded in intentions, or if she was, like those before her, after something from him not yet named, unspecified, but certainly not him, not his heart and soul. Could he fuck her, ruthlessly fuck her senseless, like those before her? _Yes,_ the dark void answered, _bury yourself deep, divest yourself of conscience, guilt,_ _infect her even as she destroys you._

The din of the room had faded, the patrons becoming blurred faces melding easily into one another, indistinguishable, and she had reached her hand up, her thumb smoothing the creases next to his eye, moving further up to his forehead, applying some pressure, as if to push the mutinous thoughts contained within away, a soft _Harry_ escaping her lips.

The physical connection was all it took, and his walls crumbled, gave way to his need to unburden himself, his desire to share his burden, to trust in another enough to expose himself, unresistant, in defiance of his stoic and guarded nature. He confessed to his fear that Clive was a cautionary tale, a prophetic event which foretold his eternal solitude, his marriage to the security services, like his, one of absolute monogamy, not made to suffer the attentions of a rival, demanding submission, name on a wall, or retirement to some distant lonely someplace, carrying his burdens even after his last breath, his duty, marooned with only his bitterness and solitude for company. She had kept her palm against his forehead, her other placed gently against his cheek, allowing him to pour out those fears and nightmares that haunted him unchecked, uninterrupted, her focus both terrible and unconditional.

"When I was a boy, I can't remember what age, but I remember _Gone with the Wind_, back before I knew what horrors the world would hold for me, when I was...fresh and still...able to hope. My mother took me to see Clark Gable, big fan she was, but I remember the instant Vivian Leigh came on the screen and, Ruth, I thought, well, I thought I had never seen anything quite so beautiful, and I've been a sucker for the dark haired beauties ever since." He'd curled the corner of his mouth up, an ironic, self depreciating smile, leaning his cheek further into her hand, resting his head, eyes closed, relishing how weightless he felt in her care.

"I named her Scarlett partly because I loved my mother very much, and lost her before I really understood what loss was, so, party to remind me of her, but more to remind me that there was a time, once, a long time ago, forever it sometimes seems, that I had hope, that I could see something so beautiful and allow it to open my heart because I didn't know how _not_ to, I hadn't learned, trained myself to embrace isolation and distrust, I only knew how to love, in the purest sense. So, in a way, Scarlett reminds me I was once pure of heart and mind, I wasn't always...this way."

He had never told anybody about that day, not Rebecca Swanson, who to his youthful eyes looked enough like Vivien Leigh to love, not Daniel, his boyhood friend who eventually won her, nor Ben, his brother, closer to him than any single person that had ever meant anything to him, not Jane, a woman he had vowed to love until death's parting who gave him two children he knew next to nothing about, or any of the partners in the revolving shag-a-thon marking the early years in his career. No one. Except Ruth, in a seedy pub some forty years later, after the death of a good friend and colleague, a mentor and guide, a man who would have loved this venue, and, no doubt, would have spied them early on, hidden from the back, unraveling an extravagant background, weaving the story of their life without benefit of introduction, and this feeling is so intense, so sharp that he can imagine Clive there with them, picture him watching as Ruth quiets him with a gentle caress, his confessions, for the moment, complete.

She, taking his head in both her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye, the furrow between her brows indicative of the seriousness with which she spoke.

"Harry, I think...I know...you've done things, things which you regret, things that sit in your heart, I know it. But...you are more than what you've done, Harry. I know that, too. None of us get out with a clear conscience. My grandmother used to say a clear conscience was just a bad memory, and a life not fully lived." Eyebrow raised, smirk forming, "I think you would have liked her." Removing her hands, leaning back again, "You've just been looking in the wrong places, finding the wrong people for a safe haven. Find those, and you'll find a bit of the peace you're searching for, not all, but it's a start." Her earnestness, her belief that what she was saying was categorically true, was, to him, infectious, a curious reversal of station between them, and he felt in his bones, lighter, relieved, tranquil, his earlier baser urges abating, but his decision to pursue her intensifying.

"There are _right_ places to look?"

"Yes,"

"Where?"

"Here."

"And people?"

"Yes,"

"Who?" _Oh, God wait for it._

"Me." Blushing as she spoke, her composure a delicate balance between vulnerability and unguarded generosity, her proposition, candid, coloring his thoughts with double entendres a consequence of his nature and her guileless approach.

"What I mean to say is...that you can, you can talk to me, trust me, I would like to do that...for you, be a safe place...be that for you, when you have a need, for times like, like this." A slight shrug, gone before it was there, her mouth curved in a half smile, and he had taken her hand in between his, warm, soft, "I can assure you my level of discretion rivals Scarlett's, and I'll even promise not to chew your socks." A full grin lighting up her face, her eyes buoyant, dancing with mirth.

"Bold statement, Ruth. I've never known you to boast quite so." Smiling in return, lending the intended humor to his words. "I'll entertain your offer. There is, of course, Scarlett to consider. She is a very jealous mistress, our Scarlett, very sensitive to rejection. It will have to be handled delicately lest she make her displeasures known in unsavory ways throughout my house."

"That wouldn't do." Laughing outright, full throated, the muscles in her exposed neck moving sublimely to accommodate, her nose wrinkling in the way he found so endearing, rather a triumph if you could get her to do it.

"No, but she's sweet on me, so I think we'll have luck on our side." Winking at her, leaning back, allowing her space, the cock-up of his baser urges avoided, his achievement in releasing her from his grasp realized anew.

"Another, then?" His face, weathered, all bushy eyebrows and ravages of time, alcoholic excesses creasing his face, "Whiskey. Will it be another, then?"

"We should get back, Harry..." Mischievous, _certainly_, open to suggestion, _maybe_, and he was shocked to discover they had been gone nearly two hours, undetected, hoping that their return to the grid would leave them as equally unidentified.

They didn't rush, neither adopting a shared stride of urgency, nor one of lethargy, but somewhere in between which, by design, balanced companionship with burgeoning affection, that pace which embodied a yearning to extend time's passage, but simultaneous, a concurrent acceleration into the next moment wherein those newly discovered emotions, fondness, devotion, _passion, _could be built upon, the appetite for such fueled by eagerness and an almost tragic state of idolatry.

With the exception of Jane, he had never ventured to know a woman, really _know_ her, and he concludes that this elation, this feeling of euphoria is the result of discovery, the rush found at the end of searching, a puzzle piece uncovered and placed, the individual stamp identifying an other, your other, designed for you as you begin to see, as you begin to unveil, and taste, and crave. Not with Jane, his sight of her never materializing despite her pleas, enabling the ebulliency he feels now as they walk, side by side, the deep craving for more, the mind numbing obsession of it, absolute and irrevocable.

That evening, the weightlessness remained with him, not as acute, but enough in tangible substance that he had foregone his customary half bottle, his ritual of self medication, the application of numbing techniques unnecessary in the wake of his unexpected time spent with Ruth earlier. It does not escape his notice that his hands tremble, almost undetectable, but there, his risk of becoming ever more like his father a time worn dance he's well versed in, the steps ingrained.

She had stopped at his door, announcing her intention to head home, his head buried in reports, messages, the accumulated detritus of his two hour absence.

"Do please think about it, Harry, yes? Anytime. Really, no worries." Her smile was kind and genuine, developing and vanishing within seconds before she turned to leave.

"Thank you, Ruth. I...I will." The best he could muster, his inner dialogue continuing, _I want you to stay, I want you to sit whilst I finish up, and I want to take you to dinner, I want you to come home with me, I want to see you, I want you to see me, I want...I want you. _The void manifesting in his mind, clouding his thoughts, testing his ability to look but don't touch, quantifying his receptivity to leap into its maw, judging him passive, willing, laughing for knowing his weakness.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"If this isn't hugely important I hope your passport's up to date..."

"Harry, it's me."

"Ruth..."

"Yes."

"What time is it?"

"Late. Look, I'm sorry to be calling you at this hour but-"

"Are you all right?"

"Me? Yes, I'm fine, thanks."

"Well, that's ahhhh...That's good."

"Harry, I was just wondering... I was just wondering if perhaps you could come over?"

"Come over? Now?"

"There's someone I need you to meet."

"...Oh."

Of course, _of course_ you daft git...what? You thought she'd just ring you up, ask you over, shag you the moment you arrived? As he drove, haphazardly, recklessly, his mind preoccupied with self recrimination, _she has offered you friendship, a shoulder to lean on, and the very first phone call from her, your cock is ready to spring from your shorts, and here's you, keen to invite her into the sexual cesspool of your overactive imagination, so much for wanting to know her, to see her, it's a pathetic tale, ego and vanity the only children worthy of an aging philanderer._

She had greeted him upon his arrival, and he sensed her agitation, her heightened nervousness within moments of entering. Her initial greeting was brief, a curt _Hey, _turning away towards the kitchen, and he finds the atmosphere uncomfortable, tangibly different from the last time he was within these walls. The pictures, the organized chaos all remained intact, but indefinably altered, tumultuous, and he found himself steeling his emotions with every step towards where she had disappeared.

Gary Hicks. _Gary Bloody Hicks._ _This_ is the man Clive trusted with the oft rumored book of secrets, Pandora's Box of Nightmares. So, it was true, then. Clive had not kept his end of the security services bargain, and in failing to do so, engendered the caliber of enemy that wouldn't waste time attempting to talk him out of going public, establishing suicide as the cause of death highly implausible, as he had initially suspected. But, Gary Hicks, this twitching, alcoholic, festering piece of humanity, this vainglorious, self engrossed _journalist_, in the loosest meaning of the term, had, in his overreaching arrogance, placed Ruth, _his Ruth_, in danger by daring to approach her, let alone break into her home in an exceedingly cavalier fashion typically characteristic of sociopaths. That he hated this man was a laughable understatement, not least as it gradually became clear that they had, at some point inconceivable to him, had some manner of relationship, _Ruthie_, setting his teeth on edge, overcome with the urge to serve him up on a platter and be done with it.

On the heels of this satisfying image, his better angels vaulted themselves violently into the fray of his present consciousness, demanding, for the sake of Clive, that he set aside his sophomoric urges towards Hicks, usurper, entitled intruder, vessel of intelligence better left hidden in the shadows. Encouraged, strengthened by the routine, the rote ritual of facing risk, he poured himself the last of Ruth's whiskey, the bottle they had shared, depleted by this braggart standing before him, chain smoking, entirely unaware of the danger he had placed them all in, he had placed _her_ in, and began the process of taking control, arranging a safe house for them, dismantling cell phones, while experiencing a brief, but thoroughly satisfying, and obscene level of pleasure in placing Gary Hicks, effectively, under house arrest, knowing, instinctively, he would chafe at restrictions, his freedom in another's hands, anticipating his impending amusement. He would enjoy watching him squirm. He told himself it was for Clive, and to a certain extent, it was. But, in the deep recesses of his true self, he couldn't ignore his sense of urgency, his evaluation of risk was informed by Ruth, his affections entangling with his loyalties towards Clive, and then his commitment to his duty, obliterating his ability to be objective, giving him a small taste of what his life would be were he to pursue and claim her as his.

She had become close to Zaf, in Danny's absence, and it was because he himself could not be at the safe house, a breach in protocol that would not go unnoticed, that he had instructed both Adam and Zaf to rotate attendance, ostensibly to guard Hicks, but, if he was honest, to ensure Ruth was never left unattended with him, never unguarded, confident that both Zaf and Adam would do what was necessary to guarantee her safety. That she and Hicks had some previous entanglement stung, his mind attempting to pinpoint what had attracted her, and yearning to understand how he had failed so spectacularly in his assumptions, never once contemplating she, too, would have ex lovers. It was true, she had never turned in a S24, and apart from the Fortescue debacle, had shown little to no inclination towards dating, courting, _hell,_ interest beyond total devotion to her job. If he were honest with himself, she had offered nothing beyond simple friendship, her generosity of spirit compelling her to compassionate acts so rare in evidence in his life he had allowed his imagination to color beyond the lines, embellishing, hearing words he wasn't sure she'd spoken, believing what he wanted to believe, not seeing her actions as definitive of her character, but as explosively yearned for expressions of fancy and affection, _him, him, him, always him._ The hypocrisy of his assessment of Hicks was not lost on him, mirrors both, suitors claiming territory.

She had been caught in the crossfire between CO19, Zaf, and as yet unidentified assailants attempting to assassinate Hicks, throwing herself over him, shielding him with her body, and he couldn't allow himself to contemplate his reaction were she to have been injured, murdered outright to ensure that Pandora's Box remained securely closed. Years of experience told him this would not be the last time she was in danger, and her proximity to Hicks served only to heighten that considerable and established risk.

Entrusting Malcolm to construct a passable duplicate manuscript, taking advantage of information gleaned from an asset of Adam's, a fortuitous bit of luck there, possibly, he, however, had fancied, Clive working the numbers, parting the clouds, demanding to be heard even after death, he'd concluded the only solution ensuring both Ruth, and Hicks' continued safety was to let it be known he was also in possession of Clive's manuscript, provided to him prior to his demise, and would have no compunction whatsoever in using it, setting fire to the lot of them, watching as they twist and turn, betray and reveal, the destruction of cleansing one's soul a spectator's sport. He had to admit, privately, that Woodring organizing the death squad over at Six had come as a shock, initially, but given the kernels of information contained within provided, reluctantly, by Hicks, he imagined it more of a shock that Woodring appeared to have acted alone, though he was hard pressed to believe Juliet had not been active within the loop of conspiracy. She was, of course, resplendent in justifications, washing herself of guilt with necessary acts, those decisions which allow the government to continue unimpeded by scandal, and, in this specific case, scrutiny. If the complacent masses only knew what acts were executed in their collective name, _for their own good, for the sanctity of the realm. _The dark void visits us all, smiling.

He had decided to place Hicks on the shelf for future use, extracting from him his word the manuscript would remain undisclosed, it's contents and truths more effective as camouflaged ravings of a terminally ill and bitter man, manipulation tools disclosed as needs must, divulged to bend the will of man to suit his wants and desires. He took no small amount of pleasure in watching as Hicks was forced to sign the Official Secrets Act, and enjoyed the opportunity to detail for him the magnitude of consequence should Hicks disregard the pledge of silence in all areas concerning Clive McTaggart, and his Pandora Box of Secrets.

"You are _never_ to approach me again. Is that clear?" Her tone was dangerously calm, deceptively soft, serene, a shiver of recognition traveling his spine, her imitation of him alarmingly spot on. Full circle, time passing, retracing the beginning, her skills developing even as he watched her slice.

"_Ruthie..._" Adopting an obsequiously cajoling attitude, attempting to appease, smooth her over, engender himself in her graces, and he squeezed his hands at his sides to avoid doing worse, indulging in the impulse to physically harm him.

"_Is that clear?"_ Each word bitten off before the next, she stared at him unflinchingly, steady, cold as ice, her breathing barely lifting her chest, her emotional state a mystery behind her impassive expression. He knew, then, in the quiet as she awaited Hicks' acquiescence that she was returning to him, discarding this past liaison, closing the door on him until she had use of a shelved asset, alining herself with MI5, with Pandora's Box, willfully immersing herself, her path chosen, her allegiance decided. His.

It was, quite literally, the sexiest thing he had ever witnessed from her to date, his list of eminently sexy things having narrowed to include only those involving Ruth some time ago, becoming an awestruck spectator, and she emanating strength from within, his desire stirring, his need to claim her primary, his hands squeezing and releasing at his sides, as she turned and calmly left the room.

It was in that moment he'd decided to share with her the truth of the manuscript, both forged and authentic, each in his possession, Clive, ever resilient, having stacked the deck, choosing to provide him with every seedy, underhanded event he had documented over his forty plus years in service. One book with enough information to topple an entire government, and awesome weapon in the wrong hands, or, for that matter, his own.

"She isn't what she seems, you know. You think you know her? Don't fool yourself, _Harry_. She discarded me before, and she's discarding me now. No remorse, no afterthought. Done, and done." Slapping his hands together, a casino card dealer making way for the next, washing his hands of the game on the table.

"Perhaps it's more likely she simply decided it was time to expunge herself of excess garbage." His tone light, disregard dripping from every word spoken.

"Ha! I'm not the only garbage needing removal in this room," eyes sharp, drilling into his own, daring him to flinch, daring him to deny.

"She'll discard you as easily, once she really sees you. You and I, we're the same, _Harry_, much as it may sicken you." Smiling, sardonic, twisting the knife with enthusiasm. "Opportunistic, manipulative bastards both of us, willing to do whatever is necessary to secure the end we demand, feel entitled to, earned by blood or trickery, doesn't matter because in the end, we're cut from the same cloth, and when she sees you, she'll make you bleed, and you will never be washed of her. I'm paid to be observant, Harry, and I've observed you, with her. It won't be long, now."

Offering a sarcastic salute in parting, "I wish you luck. You're going to need it."

He allowed Hicks the last word, his flair for the dramatic worn on his sleeve, a performer masquerading as a journalist. Sitting, the silence of the room enfolding him, he concentrated on erasing his altercation with Hicks, the fundamental truths revealed, more unpalatable due to the source, the fount of illumination, a sociopath much like himself, though clearly more at ease with that stamp of amoral tendency, ability. Was he not, in deciding to bring Ruth into his confidence, placing her in the very same level of danger as Hicks first appearing at her home? Could he truly distinguish a difference, or is the inherent hypocrisy flowing in his bloodstream, his heart coursing treachery with every thumping heartbeat, so skilled at deception, obscuring what he is, who he is in its purest fundamental form, believing the lies he tells himself?

Still entertaining the idea of taking Ruth into his confidence, vacillating between what he _should_ do versus what he _wanted_ to do, he waited until the grid was all but deserted, the two of them illuminated, she by desk lamp, he by the signature scarlet that pulsed with life in his office. He beckoned, she came, as it was, as it always seemed to be, seating herself gingerly across from him, waiting for him to begin.

"I need to share something with you. Only you." Staring at her in earnest, telegraphing his meaning, manipulating her curiosity with his eyes alone. Nodding her assent for him to continue, choosing not to speak.

"I have Clive's original manuscript. If something were...were to happen...to me...something fatal...I can't have it falling into the wrong hands. You're my Plan B, Ruth."

"Harry...surely there are better choices..." Shaking her head, her hands beginning to rise, a movement meant to ward off any continuation.

"No. You're not an active field agent, and as such, your chances for survival increase exponentially. I have to chose someone who will, well, to be blunt...who possesses the highest chance of survival. It's critical that whomever I chose will out live me. Simple as that." Internally coaching himself, clinical, suitably removed, emotions dampened, _you must be as a surgeon's scalpel, quick and without indecision. _

Staring at him, eyes wide with shock, mumbling something he didn't catch but which sounded like _not so simple._

"There will come a time when you will be required to make this same choice. I won't be there to guide you, but I trust that you will decide as necessary. You will chose well, I have great faith in that." Tilting his head, watching her as she began to synthesize his words, breaking them down in her mind, full sentences into smaller components, accommodating their presence, reconciling meaning, conforming to duty, succumbing to his spoken need. The steps of her distillation flickering across her face, her expressions like that of a slide show, each revealing more than before, each a bread crumb of thought, there for the taking, the trail into the mystery of her mind.

_She will make you bleed._

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Looking back now, the number of secrets he has shared with her, the things she knows presently that will outlive him through her, are numerous, insidious plagues all, establishing her as the vessel by which he ensures his legacy, in some sense, his immortality bought the moment of his death, and then hers through another, rather like a child carrying the genetic stamp of familial lines into adulthood, the species surviving generations, tied by blood, and vows, and oaths, time retracing the beginning, full circle. There was a tragic beauty in the memory, the first metaphorical conception between them, their immortal union secured, done, and done. A life created from another death, a vow bestowed in the face of treachery and betrayal, an affection born of awe and recognition, a warning issued, beware, old man, it won't be long now, the vanquished departing the field.

_She will make you bleed._

His melancholic, despondent heart welcomed it, the little death, the rapturous defeat.

_I see you, Ruth._

_See me, and let me bleed._

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**A/N: I'm going on vacation, off the grid, and will be enjoying numerous elaborately garnished cocktails brought to me by men wearing khaki shorts, swimming, over eating, and indulging in very bad decisions the likes of which would make a Roman Emperor blush, with not one single computer in sight. I will resume G&amp;M upon my return, and hope that y'all will accommodate this delay, while anticipating the next installment. Be Well!**


	7. Chapter 7

_"__Hey now, all you sinners_

_Put your lights on, put your lights on_

_Hey now, all you lovers_

_Put your lights on, put your lights on_

_Hey now, all you killers_

_Put your lights on, put your lights on_

_Hey now, all you children_

_Leave your lights on, you better leave your lights on_

_Cause there's a monster living under my bed_

_Whispering in my ear_

_There's an angel, with a hand on my head_

_She say I've got nothing to fear_

_There's a darkness deep in my soul_

_I still got a purpose to serve_

_So let your light shine, into my hole_

_God, don't let me lose my nerve"_

*Santana, Put Your Lights On*

_"__Jesus is risen, it's no surprise_

_Even he would martyr his mama to ride to hell between those thighs_

_The pressure is building at the base of my spine_

_If I gotta sin to see her again then I'm gonna lie, lie, lie"_

*Pucifier, Rev 22:20*

_"__Whatever trepidation you may feel_

_In your heart, you know it's not real_

_In a moment of clarity_

_Summon an act of charity_

_You gotta pull me out of this mud_

_Sweet baby, I need fresh blood"_

_*The Eels, Fresh Blood*_

**_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_**

Fiona's death was devastating, not least as it came at the hands of a sleeping ghost from whom she hadn't known she needed to guard herself, believing she knew her enemy, discovering, too late, he wore a different, yet familiar, face. She had requested the op involving the Syrians, _I want this_, she had said, the countdown initiated, her past revealing to claim her, time folding over time, its chronic inevitability, a merciless insomniac, its need to reassert, revisit, reclaim, propelling the past into the present, an individual specter for the foolish amongst us who believe the lies, melodic to the ears, _the past is gone_. But, the past waits, clenched and hidden, patient, to expose your soul, reveal your perversions, demand your self examination, ticking down indifferently as you swallow yourself whole. The past, a momentary measurement of time, an hourglass once turned, would turn again, and again, an exercise in redundancy. He was not unfamiliar, he was not a foolish man, the ghosts of his past habitually dance about him, taunting, restless, peeling his skin back, allowing access to crawl inside, tearing themselves through him, needing entertainment, never sated. Fiona had been asked to dance, given her hand, and the past bled her on an abandoned tarmac, spent, and he wondered if she felt some sense of relief in the moment, that acute relief born of weariness and struggle's end, when you know, _know in your bones_, the inevitable has arrived, your wait extinguished as a flame, your portion of sand exhausted, had she welcomed it as one would an absent lover newly returned to be held again? It was, from time to time, the very nightmare that interrupted his waking hours, the seeping anxiety forming the core of his sleepless nights, their frequency had become, over the years, perpetual, commensurate with each additional ghost, their numbers ever climbing.

Adam, riddled with grief yet incapable of expressing it, expunging it from his heart, began a flat spin he worried he would not have the strength to recover from. He had, as necessity demanded, sidelined Adam to surveillance of Hugo Ross, recently released communist of the old cloth, a cold war comrade deemed harmless, but only just so. Restless, prowling the periphery, Adam had made his dissatisfaction known, vehemently, denying he was off balance, suffering, streaking fast as the shadows pursued him, enclosed around him as he constructed lies for himself to eat. The sustenance of death, the stages of courses served, unpalatable, spoiled, the detritus of emotions. He'd ordered him to TRING, decommissioning him briefly, denying him any choice, leaving him little option. He knew Adam considered his decision a betrayal, and it wasn't that he didn't understand his pain, but that he understood it far too well, reticent to watch him dance along the precipice, refusing to remain a spectator while he methodically imploded from loss, and grief, and rage. In exiling Adam, he had removed the warning Fiona's death foretold, the persistent reminder floating about the corners for those who dare to share their lives with the security services, a marriage made of serial monogamy, her expectations unwilling to suffer another placed before her, unwilling to wear the stain of mistress, lethal, inevitable, a warning, and pledge, of pain. Clive had died, alone, pouring out his bitterness page by page, and the service that was his marriage, his union, continued forward, without a backward glance at the man who was once devoted, a forgotten carcass to join those who had fallen before him, and he thinks it quite possible the service simply mirrors the soullessness of its breathing components, the consequences delivered indiscriminately and without mercy.

Fiona's death had shaken him, reawakened fears he hadn't felt since his children were born, igniting a paternal instinct best left inert, the self absorbed instinct of solitude, the single, deeply engrained survival technique, a required skill, learned as you drop to your knees and observe the carnage, time's passage marked by names of people lost rather than year, an obscene birthday to mourn. Danny, Clive, and Fiona all ether, all courting the inevitable, all provoking their conclusions, each an individual omen beseeching he distance himself, keep himself to the solitude, the shadows, forbidding the indulgence of a mistress, a mate, of Ruth. Human kind, the most exquisite example of dust, but equally insubstantial, ephemeral in the end, returning to the dirt that first bore us, each hourglass finally at rest.His expanding list of enemies is long, littering his past, significantly more flushed, ripe and bursting than had Fiona, yet she is gone, and he remained, waiting, his hourglass not yet diminished, but ever turning on itself, replenished even as it drains away.

He knew he was courting, exactly as they had, provoking his dance, his demon suitors hidden in the great hall of his life, his eyes on Ruth, his heart screaming _yes_, his conscience battling to reaffirm self restraint, self control, his soul reaching for his twin, his inherent malignancies metastasizing, polluting, willing him to take her into the dance with him, courting her death with every movement closer to her, the eyes surrounding them ever watchful, his craving for her acute, palpable, his determination to deny fallible, a weakness identified and recorded, his vulnerable Achilles heal had a name, _God help him. _

_They see her._

_Harry, I need you to trust me, there is something wrong, _she had pled, and he had trusted her, not without conditions, threats of her immediate return to GCHQ, but enough to learn not to question her intuitions again. His were empty threats, made all the more hollow as he remembered how she had flinched as the fatal shot took Danny, her intuitions pinging again for Fiona, knowing in her bones something was wrong without ability to identify, and he reluctant to hear her, trust her, submit to her higher intuitions, concede control. She had, perhaps with malice towards him, though he preferred to think not, covertly defied him, leaked information to Adam, vital intelligence he had deliberately denied him in his banishment, meeting with him, clandestine, her empathy, her instinctual urge to soothe driving her to breach protocol, risk exposure, her loyalties a multifaceted betrayer within her. She had judged correctly, he had to admit, that Adam needed to be in the action, distracted despite his grief, or maybe because of it, the rush of an operation so engrained, so fundamental that to deny him further would be a slow suffocation, a life force dimming, a deliberate impediment to his ability to heal and carry on. The caveat, her winning card delivered without ostentation, _We need to think about Wes...What's best for him, Harry_, and he could not offer a rebuttal, weary at the continued effort, collapsing in the face of her argument. She was right, an occurrence more frequent than not, Adam's resiliency, his ability to see the hidden skills in another, and to act on them, which brought a jeopardized Korsakov operation to a successful conclusion, if one could qualify additional taxes leveed successful, or a once keen mind snuffed out, never to be returned, agreeable. That she was fast becoming the voice in his head, appealing to his conscience, was a daily foregone conclusion, providing a welcome respite from the constant recriminations, the gift of hindsight which allowed prevention rather than triage.

It was during an impromptu meeting with Juliet, the kind in which you evaluate the consequences of what you have done, realizing, despite your efforts, you have succeeded in trading the devil you don't know, for the one that you do, that he had allowed his thoughts to wander to Ruth, no doubt prompted by Juliet's not so subtle hints that she would welcome his return to her bed. He remembered being struck by the feeling of revulsion, literally, his skin as she caressed it shrank away from her touch, cold and venomous. He had not rebuked her in the past, his marriage, his wife, his children posing no encumbrance to the satisfaction found between her willing thighs, and he pondered what it meant that he had been repulsed then, unmarried, lonely, as absolutely available on paper, as unavailable in his mind, and heart, his hourglass at the exact moment of time marked as equidistance, turn back or face forward, the choice entirely his.

He could have, within a few short moments, delved deep into the past and chose Juliet, vicious, heartless, a viper of the first order, and, truth told, a fantastic fuck, or move into the future towards Ruth, towards something he'd dared not hope to possess, but feared he'd be granted the opportunity, knowing it was unearned, purloined from the mists, not rightfully his to grasp and enjoy, his demons observing from the shadows as they danced. He had, he realized, experienced what should have occurred in Paris, in Berlin, an unwillingness to betray Ruth with another, his vow to abstain, though silent, his unspoken secret to keep alone, both powerful and stupefying, the guilt of having misled Jane so casually burning through him, the truth that she never stood a chance, sharp as it had sliced violently through his conscience.

Is this what so many have sought to describe on paper, reams of parchment dedicated to the detailed dissection of emotions, the swirling confusion and despair, the craving and obsession that occurs with another, for another, the overwhelming urge to crawl inside another, nestle in their warmth, deep, a heartbeat pulsing rhythmic verse into your ear, familiar, tasting it in your mouth, breathing it into the deepest depths of your lungs, consuming you even as you yearn to be devoured? _Love, love, careless, love. _He'd had no idea the magnitude, that damaged and destructive boy, no possible way to conceive the potency, weight, the dominion demanding you relinquish mastery. He'd no idea, then, the extent to which he would find himself willing to submit, begging the right, yearning to bleed. But he knew now, after the Khurvin fiasco with the cousins, after Juliet suspended him, after her forced absence from his daily routine became debilitating, clamorous as a church bell thundering ceaselessly between his ears.

"You're out, Harry." Simple, succinct, Juliet had suspended him, assuming his mantle simultaneously, one fell swoop, disposing of him as one would spoiled milk, swirling the drain, thinning as it disappeared, foul smell fading, never was. He spoke not a single word as he was escorted from the grid, humiliated, his eyes resting on his team, his surrogate family, each in turn, a silent audience his witness, finally landing on Ruth, searching for reassurance as much as wanting to bestow the same. A fickle cupid, Death would not, as had been customary, bring them together, trade their fledgling life together for others lost, mark another moment in his memory as fated, destined, another tentative step into the dark void. Two dead agents, Khurvin done a runner at large, the cousins the festering ooze within the wound of his cataclysmic and hasty miscalculation of risk all down, if he were honest, to his vanity, his overreaching sense of territory egregiously invaded, his frustration at having to sit and roll over, the proper domesticated pet born of their burgeoning _special relationship_, their political willingness to subjugate themselves to the enlightenment of those military pea-tree dishes across the pond. Ironic that the operation with which Juliet had attempted to blackmail him drew its genetic inception from those very same think tanks, and it is not lost on him that his residual distaste and hidden shame compromised his decision, an irritated ulcer, acidic, corrosive, never dissipating, but inflamed with every _extradition_ of British citizen.

There was an Alex Roscoe then, and an Alex Roscoe now, same interchangeable faced zealot, a closet xenophobe seeing terrorist in every face which doesn't resemble his own, creating wars based on fear, misinformation, and the overreaching power of the American Military Industrial Complex. War, its inception or prevention, was, and is, big business, and we the little sister waiting for our allowance for completing our portion of chores, just as we waited then to be invited to join the grown up table. Not for the first time does he consider he has become obsolete, incapable of accurately identifying the enemy from without, or within, the edges greying to become indistinguishable, motivations having morphed into vague and obtuse ideologies whose boundaries continue to realign, fostered onto an unsuspecting and passive mass of humanity ready to eat their share, and ask for more. These are the bitter thoughts, the redundant and self depreciating inner dialogue which formed the hallmark of his suspension, his exile to the periphery, and he thinks he understood how Adam felt, shuffled to the periphery after Fiona's death, his home no longer a home, his playground shuttered _for his own good_ by those who thought they understood, but overreached in the assumption. But Ruth understood, had known Adam needed the hunt to heal, the focus of an operation to salve his pain, allow him to grieve as was necessary, as he determined for himself, for Wes. Autonomy tempered with human connection, a delicate balance, and Ruth alone had known it, pled in his absence, argued her opinion, quietly relentless, demanded he reexamine his position, cajoled him to give way, her loyalties divided, yet impenetrable. And he had succumbed, had seen the wisdom found within the chaos.

Through back channels, Adam had, within hours of his forced departure, sought to keep him firmly in the loop, not contented to watch him become an malcontented spectator in his own professional destruction, a decision he, in his arrogance, had not likewise allowed Adam, were it not for Ruth, and he experienced a realization so deeply humbling that he thinks, not for the last time, his innate insolence is a weakness so debilitating he does not deserve the loyalty he has engendered in those that serve with him, for him, having taken it for granted, his lack of appreciation staggering. Two months worth of intelligence missing from the Khurvin file, Fist of Islam associations, CIA suddenly keen to provide information after the fact, all resplendent with the stench of manufactured intelligence reminiscent of operations past, and despite his understanding of his own fecund conceit, he remained, as always with Americans, suspect of their motivations, disdainful of their assurances, seeing his own prolific hubris mirrored with every clandestine communication with Adam.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"She's worried about you..."

"Sweet," chuckling, a meager attempt to hide how much her concern affected him, comforting, thrilling, fearsome and terrible, his heart thundering in response to the mention of her. She had provided all that he needed, and then some, an autobiography of George S. Patton, sandwiched between kibble and a fresh bottle of scotch, and it took him the better part of an hour to decipher the message she had hidden within its voluminous pages, _Sustenance in my temporary absence as safe harbor, the socks are a failsafe. The front lines miss you, xxR. _

"The food she sent was more than enough." He had deliberately concentrated on the racing form, judging by a calculated, furtive glance Adam had gleaned enough from the exchange to put rest any doubt that the undercurrent between he and Ruth was not imagined, loathe to provide any additional confirmation, he focused, instead, on concealing his smile, an effort he was not surprised required a torturous amount of effort. He had, despite his internal vow to avoid such, grown to regard Adam as a friend, his concern for his emotional welfare beyond that of an indifferent supervisor, his instinct telling him the hollow, vacant look in his eyes spoke volumes, the depths of his turmoil, his loss, his existence rudderless, lacking tether and some substantial measure of balance, terror redefined within, the ocean riotous and eroding, the end once attached to Fiona, severed, trailing behind him, the ripples thus formed blending with an ocean made of regrets and should haves.

"It feels as though something is broken that can never be fixed." The pain etched on his face, the raw vulnerability, his effort to conceal it clumsy and half hearted, an action obvious in its predictability, those that mourn determined to relieve well wishers, doctoring the spectators, even as they bleed internally, comforting those who haven't felt the depth of loss as a participant, uncomfortable with the emotional expressions both felt and received. He remembers, then, Ben, and his mother before him, the pain, an internal, flowing river, churning the silt of memories and guilt, rage and helpless frustration, and he so young, abandoned to mourn without appearing so, the mortar just beginning to form his protective shell, the layers of isolation only beginning to construct, seams fusing, refolding, reshaping the form and foundations of his soul and heart, pulsing with purpose and horrific efficiency, the makings of an effortless future spy.

"And the grid?" Walking towards the stables, the distance between them and his assigned handlers a brief respite from the listening devices, his fleeting moment to engage in conversation forbidden, the details forming a verbal contraband, unauthorized, an act of treason in the offing, the addictive adrenaline coursing within him, waking the slumbering agent inside, Mr. Shadow swaggering center stage, body humming with anticipation.

"Tense, as you might expect. Juliet is...Her style is...She's been behind a desk for too long, obsolete, in a word," pausing, narrowing his eyes as he watched to dogs streak past. "Jo is finding it...difficult to...reconcile...she's...," searching for the word, walking a minefield.

"Young. Very young." He had supplied after a time, after Adam had failed to continue, his eyes staring into the middle distance, an unseeing, blank gaze indicative of guilt to his trained eye, shared by him, if he were honest, acknowledging his part, her current profession at odds with the altruistic motivations of journalists, observers all, inferring meaning, alluding to truths, a few noble ones out there to be certain, she likely to have joined the ever diminishing ranks were it not for Adam, manipulating, suggesting MI5 was essentially the same, but a better playground, appealing to her instinct, her desire to uncover truths and protect those that need protection from those lurking in the shadows amongst us, unseen.

"It is one thing to play at observant bystander, toss a phone into a criminal's car...Quite another to witness two fellow agents cut down moments after you've spoken. The things she's seen only proves it the rule, sadly, not the exception." He had wanted to add she'll toughen up, but refrained down to the shared shame of it, he and Adam, the reality that something innocent and fresh should be churned, reformed, made harder, the forced extraction of vitality the service demands, the burning spark that once identified her as one of the masses, anonymous, replaced by someone who looks a little like her, but wears her bitterness and cynicism as a shield, desperate to protect the soft underbelly, the need to retain such paramount, a crucial necessity to remaining human, remaining true to the cause, monstrous and horrifying in its frequency of occurrence.

Malcolm had been right, it seems, that his need for her, his Ruth, will lead, inexorably, to her death, her unsuspecting soul, her exquisite spark, her burning vitality the trifecta of sacrifice, the empty and pitiless hull left remaining a shadow of her once brilliant promise, curled into herself, beyond reach, protective of what is left of her empathy, her humanity, his Ruth, his twilight touchstone, beyond grasp or rescue. Vicious his heart, as it battered against conscience, his vehement silent vows to protect her, his furious desperation to deny the inevitability of past sins becoming prologue, the nature of his willingness to swallow the lies he'd constructed, embellished, treasured, fierce in their voracity, flagrant in their alignment with the void, serenading him, rotten, corrupting, _he must release her, he must have her. _

"She's butted heads with Ruth." Adam had turned to look at him, gauging his reaction, like Sam before him, quick and efficient, and he realized after a moment he had continued on the topic of Juliet. "Colin, too. She no longer understands the nature of the beast. Seems to possess an uncanny ability to alienate those most likely to help her, a little too friendly with the cousins...A perfect politician, getting in the way, obfuscating, manipulating, self important..." His handlers had turned the corner, within listening distance, and he smiled as he imagined Juliet's face as she read the worthless transcripts, as she attempted to reprimand Adam for nothing beyond a conversation between friends, attempted to establish domination over those who refused to submit entirely, as he blew the whistle and the dogs began to play their part, bit actors of instinct, background cacophony used to obfuscate and disrupt, old school trade craft, that.

"I need the entire file we have on Khurvin."

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

She was on the top floor, reading, and as he approached the seat behind her, he was astonished that he could still be stunned by his physical reaction, the thrumming pulse, the flush spreading across his chest, the satisfaction, the instant sense of calm her proximity drew from him, his body responding as in sickness responding to cure, his affection an unwanted and deleterious illness, reaching, and he without words, immobile, gazing at his weakness, touching her with his eyes, the gaping maw of the void opening wider to accommodate them both, her hair blowing softly, unaware. It struck him, then, the darker consequences of his misjudgment, the gratuitous refrain of becoming obsolete in the new terror age paling to the unfathomable measure of her daily absence, a correlating necessity he was, _had_, attempted to resign himself to with his decision to resign after Shining Dawn. He sent a silent, earnest, thank you to Adam, for choosing Ruth as the means by which to pass the Khurvin file, even as he damned them both for dragging her ever deeper into the muck and grime of treason for the greater good, for Queen and Country, the maw salivating, smelling fresh blood, appetite triggered and insatiable, his heart, nevertheless, engorged with affection, mutated, requiring she become sullied, infected, and he her single remaining cure, helpless in his inability to rein himself, his nature alive, the rush all consuming, the antithesis of rationality, control, restraint.

"Nice night out..." Breathy, rushed, hesitant, his chest constricting as the words were formed and quietly spoken.

"I thought you were some weirdo." Turning her head, her profile, resuming the page, Mona Lisa smile playing about her lips, the just visible corner provoking his natural instinct to pounce, claim, tear apart and consume whole.

"I may not be your boss anymore, Ruth, but there's no need to be insulting." Delighted, she's making it easy, deliciously teasing in her presence, undermining the danger of this moment, smirking in the face of it, eyes still on the page, though no longer understanding the words, her movements reciprocal with his, the need to extend time or freeze it, the sand dropping granules, becoming the past even in the brief moments comprising their present, slipping, indifferently, both grasping to hold on, to extend, to fortify.

"How did you know I would be here?" Attuned, knowing she can't overtly acknowledge him, the chance of being observed stirring something deep and primal within him, the lurid details of voyeurism, tantalizing and seductive, and he very nearly eases forward, closer, his affinity for taboo coloring his wants and needs, desiring to see her face, her eyes, to see himself reflected there as worthy of this risk, to bathe in her forgiveness for all that he has asked for, all he has yet to require, yearning to breathe her scent, watch the pulse as it quickens at her neck, matching his own, ever closer to undone as he imagined placing his lips on her, again, forbidden in the extreme, the tether weaving around them, serpentine, deadly.

"A couple of months ago I passed you standing at the bus stop in the pouring rain, shortly after EERE. I was being driven home, and to my eternal shame...and now regret...I didn't stop." Lightheaded, his words of confession driven by a source unknown to him, beyond his ability to stop, the feeling of peace enveloping, demanding he divulge more, demanding he confess it all, flayed open, the specter of Death reemerging, a poisonous Cyrano, demanding he recollect the first moment he thought to take advantage of her, playing at Apocalyptic destruction, the moments subsequent flush with the taste of fatalities, his tether to her flourishing despite the morbid and decomposing corpses littering their dance floor, the void needing more, and more, and yet still more. And still she smiles, serene, tranquil, as the granules drop, the hourglass marking time overlapping, the past is present, the present is past, all irretrievably slipping away.

"That's fine. I like the bus. Save your regrets and shame for another day, another time, you've...You've already made it up to me, you've shown me what I needed to know, what I already knew." Closing her book, her profile reflecting the passing lights, alighting and playful on the smooth surface of her skin.

"You asked me once, after Danny, to stay...with you. I felt you, then. I felt you surround me, safe, allowing me to breathe, the breadth of your generosity, your goodness, it warmed me. Until then, I...I felt...adrift, in my whole life...until you reached inside, pulled me back where I needed to be...where I wanted to be...with you, alive after so long, waiting. I thought...thought I would never...that it wasn't meant for me, not me...But, I see you, Harry, all that you try to hide and protect from the rest, always have done. It can't be undone...you...You and me." Unfolding herself, feline in calculated movement, cautious, sublime, the breeze unveiling the back of her neck as she moved, his eyes then drawn to each exposed nub of bone, displayed, vulnerable, so easily snapped by callous and careless hands, delicate as a bird's, the hair at her nape caressing, lifting, settling back, the ethereal down of her body, goading him unmercifully, her words tunneling their way into his subconscious, _I see you, Harry._

_She will see you, and make you bleed._

"I have something for you..."

So it began, the bloodletting, her words tearing at him, drawing blood, pooling as he clenched his fists, willing himself not to act, not to destroy her with a conscious step forward. Better to be unconscious, better to lay down, allow death to take him gently into its arms, lulling him with whispered words of comfort and solitude, his life's blood draining, his infection spilling from him, and she untainted, denied entrance, barred from advancing further, for her own good, breathing his last, a terrible kindness she cannot fathom, the shadow she will become obscene, yet to be evaded, waiting, as she waited, the gift he offers, meant for her even as it will rot her from within.

He watched as she had extended her arm along the back of her seat, her hand curled protectively around the contraband drive, slow motion to his eye, her movements fluid, sounds from the open window, the life pulsing around them diminished to his ear, his focus entirely concentrated on her hand, an invitation to touch her under the guise of trade craft, an intellectual exchange through deliberate physical connection, and he had reached towards her without restraint, disregarding his inner alarm bells, his urge to place his hands on her intense and powerful, vital. The feeling was like that of mistakenly touching an exposed, live wire, the jolt beginning in his fingertips was dangerously pleasurable, instantaneous, the intensity abating only slightly as it wound its way up his arm, the warmth created carried with it, his fingertips caressed the inside of her hand, the curve formed, her fingers instinctively flexing briefly, enclosed around his again, after the exchange, her thumb and forefinger grasped him tighter as he drew his hand away, staring at the purloined drive, flipping it around, stunned that he had not dropped it, his hand numb, cold, and he was forced to flex it, reestablish dominance and control as he slipped it into his coat pocket to rest securely against his heart.

"Thanks," he had whispered, as he seemed to watch himself teeter on the precipice, the void calling, his nature demanding, his conscience warring valiantly against the powerful onslaught, unable to look at her further, her profile only slightly less affecting than were she to turn full and face him, a precarious act both fearsome and desired, he continued to look down, feeling her anticipation as she awaited his next move, the weight of her words heavy between them.

"Keep an eye on Adam for me. He's-" And it was done, in an instant, the connection severed, her arm drawn back, enfolding into herself, her face shuttered in seconds, her smile vanished, replaced by indifference, deadening to him, her eyes hurt, her movements suddenly wooden, foreign and unfamiliar. It had to be done, he told himself, using Adam as a wedge, that immovable object thrust effortlessly between them, whose mention was calculated, designed to jar them both back into a state of imbalance, curiously controllable, whereas the previous fluid and natural exchange was perilously uncontrollable, fraught with hazards, his unspoken lusts and wants, her spoken admissions and invitations, land-mines each waiting for them to submit, stumble, explosions once triggered, cannot be undone, she and I, skirting ever closer.

_I see you, Harry._

_It can't be undone...You and me._

He knows now, as he knew then, she was correct, her intuitive understanding of them, of things unseen, a unit formed without premeditation, a union consummated time and again in his darkest fantasies, forged on a foundation of traumas and secrets, yearning and recognition, each granule of sand providing fortification, each stolen, clandestine moment between them consolidating one into the other, forming the buttress against which they both breathe together, in time, the syncopation of utterly devastating devotion, it could not be undone. He had watched her then, as she turned herself from him, physically closing inward before his eyes, and experienced a crippling fear, yet found, intertwined within, an emotion he could only identify as rapture, deliciously languid and tender, the urge to strike out tempered by the primal urge to touch, caress, to draw from her contentment, to thrust her into a state of ecstasy, the euphoria and despair of reverence, his will prostrate, she unwilling in her deification. She had, he understood, become necessary to him in much the same way religion salved the masses, dutifully attending, genuflecting, regurgitating verse, pledging fealty to an entity who wears numerous names, unseen, unknown, attempting to explain the unexplainable, to make sense of the senseless, the overriding need to belong to something, _someone_, that longing to be whole. Is it at all surprising, then, that spies often feel godlike, embrued with gifts of knowledge, sight into the unrevealed depths of human existence, omniscient, omnipotent, wearing their legends, deciding who lives, who dies, allowed opportunity better left to the Gods, indifferently balancing the scales, humankind an infantile plaything, genocidal and benevolent in equal measure.

"Thank you...," leaning into her ear, her hair ticking his nose, he'd rushed to make his exit without delay, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets to prevent him from grasping her shoulders, shaking her, denying that their was an _us_, forcing her to look him in the eye as he refused to play her other, deliberately twisting her confession to suit his needs, crushing her to save her, you are not safe with me, the goodness you see is a lie, a carefully constructed fallacy, decoration hiding a multitude of sins and perversions, _you do not see me_. The physical absence of her, the nothingness that remained, was nothing like he'd ever experienced, that imaginary phantom limb that aches though severed from the body, a dulling reminder of what once was, what was supposed to have been, invisible, yet excruciatingly present.

He had never felt this way with Jane, never with Juliet, nor Elena, his absence or presence within their lives indiscriminate, illicit, but never physically debilitating as with Ruth. He had loved, in a fashion, all three, but it was with the heart of a feckless, philandering, foolish boy with no understanding of consequences, no ability to grasp that he couldn't manipulate indefinitely, all the warnings rushing, one behind the other, through his mind then, as he stood alone, the words from those who were no longer present demanding acknowledgement, _you will regret, you will understand what you cannot now, you will not always be who you are, and what you will become will regret who you have been, the ghosts do not sleep, and the past will rise to meet you, eye to eye, demanding accountability, insomnia your curse and penance._

But he understood now, in full measure, the depth of his unspoken commitment to her as he watched the lights of the bus that carried her away from him fade in the distance. He relished the warmth as it swelled within him, his acceptance that it was beyond infatuation, adoration, his attachments of the past forming a sophomoric picture of selfish desires, childish and lacking in depth by comparison. It was love, this overwhelming drive to be with her, a part of her, a primal thirst unquenched, her physical absence from his eyes and body a torture unlike any he had known, the delicate dance they had embarked on unexpected, uncontrollable, yet the steps familiar, reciprocated by each in turn, mirrors both, drawn inexorably into the arms and heart of the other, thrumming together, reunited over time, the granules remain the same, again, again, and again.

Had he not recognized her from the first? Felt the previous absence of her, keen, exacting, in the midst of her interview, even as he delayed its conclusion for want of remaining near her? Had something inside him not reached for her before he'd had time to consciously examine his urges, his will instinctively acquiescing without considering the consequence? Had he not known her instantly, every moment thereafter revealing what was already present, waiting, as she had waited, for the gradual unveiling? Had the universe not conspired to join their paths by any means necessary, a destined alliance, a formidable and fated union, each powerless to prevent it?

The mists had gathered around him, blanketing him in late evening dew characteristic of London, each inanimate object glowing about him, the natural halos of light soft and welcoming, and he embraced the beauty he found anew, his eyes capturing what he had so often overlooked, his ability as a boy diminishing as he hardened into a man, the simplicity and truth, allowing himself to see and be seen, the barricades, years of deliberate, erected fortifications surrounding his soul, crumbling, the slow erosion of sand against an ocean of time. Several minutes had passed as he had walked casually, one of the nameless masses for a time, reflecting on the turmoil, the seductive conundrum he stood in the midst of, his stomach a mass of fluttering wings, his instinct to run full tilt at the forefront, his soul urging him to breathe evenly in the face of it, and the hair at the back of his neck rising to attention, his innate skill locating within him that eternal well of experience that spoke to being observed, shed of defenses, perceiving in the shadowy reaches of his consciousness his carelessness, thrust violently into the present, the prickling surface of his skin acknowledging unidentified spooks spying on the master, himself, the maverick, his natural habitat compromised for want of a woman, his thoughts belaying his considerable skills of subterfuge, leaving him raw and exposed.

A single cursory glance was all it took to identify the men Juliet had assigned to his watch, young pups tailing an old, cold war dog, self confidence evident even in the dim and hazy light, their youthful arrogance worn about them, singling them out as would a beacon cutting a path through the fog, it was nothing to evade them, though something altogether different to convince himself they were unaware of the treasonous intelligence exchange with Ruth. Catching her unawares on a bus, in the midst of London, was a foolish, indulgent stroke, leaving her exposed. Better to have hidden within her home, surrounded by her familiar comforts, coiled and waiting as would a snake, but for the niggling certainty that he discover himself loathe to leave her, his necessary return to his own home an amputation he would have abhorred deeply. The lesser of two evils chosen, the immediacy of resolution and reinstatement became paramount, the intelligence gleaned, purloined, examined, _we are missing something_.

Two days hence, all was revealed, the CIA satisfyingly put in their proper place, _for the moment_, one of their own fettered out, exposed and squirming under Juliet's merciless gaze, and he reinstated, as eager to return to the grid, reclaim his territory as much as reestablish dominion, godlike, omniscient, the old dog whose bite remains lethal to those who assume otherwise. He stepped through the pods, the early morning hour irrelevant to him, his purpose fundamental to his makeup, he and the grid having become one in the same with the passage of time, his tenure outlasting those before him, an intricate combination of cold war stealth and new terrorism technology proving formidable, perhaps his greatest achievement, and, yet, his habitual state of solitude, loneliness, was the first that struck him, reflected by the dimmed lights, the absence of people at that hour.

The shadows more pronounced, the silence ever more deafening, the questions forming, is _this_ worth the cost, have those sacrificed become a meaningless, burning effigy, or do they maintain some measure of substance in their sudden, combined absence? Where once service to one's country was enough, despicable acts and deeds committed in the name of Queen and realm, easily justified to those whose morality was ambiguous, at best, manipulated by ideology at worst, and where did he presently fall, did it remain _enough_?

_Enough_, a word lacking definable boundaries, individual as a fingerprint, the ingredients an ever changing combination of needs, wants, desires, and lusts, once attained, discarded in search of more of the same, believing once conquered, only peace remained, a word he could not define for his ex-wife, for himself, his children, lovers, a word whose power over him was as immeasurable as unfulfilled. Indeed, he had enjoyed his opportunity to play at field agent, tapping into skills left dormant and buried, superfluous behind a desk, the rush of adrenaline familiar, comforting, the chase and evasions, clandestine meetings, the unveiling of intelligence, the intricate steps of living the life of an active spy retraced, for a fleeting week, all fading as his eyes discovered her, his blood coursing with adrenaline of another sort. And the answer resolving, forming on his lips, whispered to himself, _No, it was no longer enough_. His hourglass at equidistance, marking the middle of this present revolution, and he, almost without conscience, chooses the future, even as his past gains ground, specters floating, yearning for corporeal venue, demanding their moments of vengeance. _No, not enough_. _Never enough, yet more than he deserved. _

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"It's good to have you back." Her smile was bright, welcoming, soothing as a fire provides heat, thawing what was once frozen solid.

"It's good to be back." A difficult admission, albeit entirely true, not least as he had long since come to accept the grid as his home, his place in the world defined, secure, balanced scales reestablished, the loneliness of having no alternative heavy in his heart and mind. His secrets and regrets, the weight, his alone, his doing, painstakingly constructed, his self imposed crucible in which to simmer, unattended. _No, not nearly enough_.

"I better get up to speed. Lots of files to read. Wouldn't want to miss anything." Speaking without thinking, by rote and routine, distancing himself, avoiding her eyes which tugged at his conscience, questioning, _are we all right, did we share something, in what direction are we to move, forward, back, not at all?_

_Do we still see each other?_

"Don't work too late." Turning from her, the questions remained unanswered, adrift between them, his wont to reclaim control primary, his need for the discipline of oft traveled paths, his familiar desk, the accouterments of false bravado and self control contained within the scarlet walls of his office, his chosen sanctuary from a myriad of storms.

"I'll get the last bus..." It had stopped his progression cold, rifling through him, her last olive branch offered, and he the intended recipient, the light of her desk lamp illuminating her, the offhand comment, the subtle shrug of her thin shoulder belying the vulnerability clear on her face, touching the surface of something shared between them, confessions spoken and heard, regret and shame, his smile bestowed, the grimace beneath barely hidden.

Feeling the office breathe around him, drawing strength as he reacclimatized, moved items about his desk, distracted himself from her, feeling her eyes on him, longing for her to join him, dreading his actions should she chose to do so, despite his cold reception of her attentions, his uncontrollable need to maintain distance undermined at every opportunity by his baser nature, lusts and wants, and this hollow emptiness within him, gorging itself on his continued denial, once comfortable, the calm of conditions expected and mundane, forced into upheaval, requiring, without effort or restraint, closer examination, introspection, acknowledgment, _God help him, no, none of it would never be enough again, but a lie, within a series of lies, he could no longer feast upon. _

He had watched her, then, as he loved her, in secret, in the dark, nestled her to his heart, the direction fathomed, their dance the initial steps, the last ingredient of enough.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"I'm off out, then." He sees her breath catch, her hesitation to leave clear though she has not yet breached the threshold of his office, hovering at the entrance, her eyes clear, bearing just a hint of an earlier proffered invitation, her hand coming to rest on the doorframe, and his mind relives what it felt like to caress the inside of her palm, the warmth and softness barely measured by his fingertips.

"I should thank you for the care package...It was very...thoughtful...," leaning back as he turned his chair towards her. She glanced down, her innocuous _hummm,_ muffled, the slight shrug of her narrow shoulders, the curl at the corner of her mouth brief, disappearing before they were truly present.

"I worried you wouldn't eat, that you would forget...Miss...But you look no worse for wear, really. You look...you look good."

"Truth told, I rather enjoyed myself. Took our Wes to the dog track. He's a real knack for picking a winner..."

"Bloody hell, Harry..." Her look of shock, her mouth dropping open, and he sat there, enjoying his ability to provoke her.

"What? Adam was there, rubbish at it, but there, just the same..." All said while adopting a look of innocence, the cornerstone of any child caught red handed in the proverbial cookie jar, his heightened eyebrows in return failing to disguise his amusement, though he hadn't really tried.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then..." Shaking her head, her shocked expression morphing into a resigned grin, maternal, forgiving.

"I missed you...all..._All_ of you, here..." He'd almost confessed it, allowed it to float between them, seconds passing without a word, before adding the last, a clarification providing a weakened safety net against a fatal fall, emphasis should she prove unyielding, unresponsive as she moved to leave.

"Did you?" Pausing, leaning against the door frame, her hand drawn to her charms, fingering them methodically, a physical distraction for them both, though the nature of her thoughts remained elusive.

"Learned a couple things, news to me, anyway..."

"Am I left to guess?" Her eyes direct, probing, hinting amused interest at the creased corners, flashing as she looked down, toed an imaginary spot before her, arms crossed around her waist.

"Let's see...I'm grateful I haven't the stomach for daytime television, tuna and crisps do not a well rounded diet make, Scarlett prefers her afternoons of solitude, seems my momentary retirement impeded her natural routine. Mmmmm...Adam is a cat man," her eyebrows raising in response, head tilting just so.

"I thought you might appreciate that..." Winking, twirling his pen between his fingers, a distraction like her charms, certainly, buying time to decide on exactly how far he should go, how much to confess, just how long could he delay her.

"Ahhh, my deciphering skills, while a tad bit rusty, served me well fettering a clever message hidden throughout an autobiography about an...American. Interesting choice, there," narrowing his eyes, unable to resist looking her up and down as she pursed her mouth, wrinkled her nose, and did a fair impression of him by narrowing her eyes in return.

"Oh, and there was, well...I've rather developed a fancy for...late night public transit." And if delayed long enough, would she remain, with him, contentedly reading a novel as he sorted the detritus of his desk, his opportunity to gaze at her unobstructed, there for the asking and taking, perhaps an offer to drive her to hers, an invitation inside, a bottle of...

"Any particular kind?" She had chosen to play along, and to his keen eye for such things, she was doing her best to control her breathing, her chin quivering, almost imperceptibly, her hands shaking as they began to fidget with the hem of her shirt.

"I'll confess I haven't much experience, but thinly populated busses have captured my interest...Very attracted to them, truth told." He had allowed his voice to drop, delivering the words softly, infusing them with deliberate innuendo, decorated with seductively honeyed pitch.

"Speaking of which, I'm about to miss mine..." Visibly frightened, he'd moved too quickly, miscalculated her ability and skill at play, at innuendo, his experience of such far superior, and he retreated quickly, frustrated at her inability to continue, celebrating her lack of guile, his cruel heart and nature angry at having been so resoundingly denied.

"I'm entertaining an irrational thought of dismissing my driver altogether..." _What? Bloody hell, for God's sake just stop, have the grace to allow her to leave you selfish, preening, arse._

"Drivers have their uses, one shouldn't underestimate the convenience..." Moving quickly now, her words half mumbled, her comportment wooden, abrupt, resplendent with the desire to vacate, escape, to anyone observing her, incapable of hiding her innate honesty, this fledgling spy not yet entirely corrupted.

"No, quite true. And with mine being so discreet, the father of two..."

"Are you trying to cause me to miss the last bus..." Stamping one foot, her tone elevated, accusatory and anxious, as though without his leave she was not free to go, and he watching, coaxing, finding her adorable, his desire for her to remain, indeed miss her last venue of escape, enhanced with every uncomfortable shuffle, every frustrated sigh forced haphazardly from her mouth.

"...And available to provide you a lift just as easily should you find yourself otherwise engaged, even...pleasantly distracted?" _Please, Ruth, just breathe, just breathe with me, in this moment, _and he wondered if he shouldn't risk approaching her then, touching her as he had after Danny, in the pub, drawing her back.She had released her bags, the sound they made as they hit the floor an unnecessary, audible exclamation point signifying her state of anxiousness, and he remained seated, reading her tells, knowing it was not the time for physical connection though his baser nature all but blinded him with its caustic din demanding the contrary.

"Yes...You..._This_ is a pleasant distraction, Harry," blowing her bangs from her eyes, "But I'm left to run, now, or I really will miss it..."

"You'll not stay?" His own olive branch of a sort, bearing the message _Breathe, Ruth, breathe with me._

"No" Shifting purposefully from foot to foot, the precursor to flight, a frightened, threatened animal before him, his Ruth.

"You're certain?" Honeyed tone, soft, caressing, willing to accept any outcome if only to smooth the furrows forming on her forehead, his desire to place his hand against them, as she had done to him, difficult to resist, a simple kindness offered, yet certain to be misinterpreted in her current state. Or not, his motives having been corrupted regarding Ruth a desperate fact he'd no ability, or will, to alter.

"No" Biting her bottom lip, exquisite his yearning to hold her, suck that lip into his mouth, love her until her anxieties and worries melted into the ether, she limp, draped and available, in his arms.

"I see. Bit of a mixed message there, Ruth." _Tell me what you want, you've only to tell me, Ruth. I've been waiting, just as you have, to divine the direction._

"I...I missed you. I did...do. I'd no idea...how...no idea at all, it was...Umm, what I said...on the, the bus, about us? I wasn't thinking clearly, Harry, you must...You were so close, and I couldn't think clearly so I just...just blurted out, without thinking the position it would put you in, the consequences. It's just...just you...you affect...and it was all so very secret and thrilling, really, and I got wrapped up, is all, lost the thread, allowed my personal...it won't happen again, I promise, really, and, oh bugger, I'm going to have to sprint to make it..."

She was going to leave, he had read it without difficulty in her face, as she stuttered across words, answering his silent question as if having read his mind, pinpointing the exact statement which would befuddle him, allowing her the few precious seconds needed to save herself, nothing to be done or said, he'd leapt too far, begged too much.

"Ruth..." he had begun, moving to stand, all for nought, as he had known it would be.

She was gone, a streaking bundle of cloth and oversized bags, through the pods, using the stairs, there and gone, frightened animal to proper little spy in a split second.

"I missed you, too." Whispered to no one but those observing from the void, celebrating his success as their own, understanding her admission both on the bus and that most recently spoken in the threshold of his office, roiling as the crest of the wave they all rode gained strength and height, the power to crush and destroy as easily as afford smooth conveyance to safe shores present in equal measure, its own equidistant choice, enfold and protect, crumble and decimate, the decision, a direction yet to be fathomed.

He wasn't imagining it, he knew, coloring beyond the lines, embellishing on memory, moments of words spoken, revelations of soul and heart, not, as he had come to believe, _hell_, needed to believe, the fanciful daydreams of an old and weary man, lonely having sold his soul some years ago, his right to peace of mind forfeit in the trade. Irretrievably altered, now, their mutual attraction and need for the other present, if not confessed entirely, no less intense and cumbersome for lack of verbal affirmation, their physical connections, while chaste, foretelling an intensity beyond previously imagined, past experience detailing nothing so much as folly, laughingly hollow, devoid of substance underestimated and infantile in the face of it. It was a bloodletting of sorts, while curiously healing, dangerous if taken too far, torturous with longing if withdrawn too soon, equidistant, each drop suspended, rounding, stretching its limits before releasing, as with human connections, invisible tethers stretching their limits, springing back to rejoin, consummating the union, crashing together, each end rejoined as one.

_I see you, Harry._

_It won't happen again, I promise._

But it will, Ruth, again, and again, and still again, eroding everything presuming to stand in its way, and he welcomed it, the suffocating crush of it, the seductive torture, writhing in its grasp, climactic and devastating in one.

Oh, yes, Ruth, it will happen again, it will have its way.

We cannot be undone, You and me.

_Love, love, careless love, _and he, sat there, silent and foolish in his certainty, denying his past, the lesson of one misstep lost to him in the present, the consequences having inexplicably faded from recent memory, riding the crest, content and unknowingly unprepared.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"I do hope you've managed to come up with something relevant though, given the number of times he's managed to evade you in the last week, you'll understand if I still have my doubts..." Tapping the pen impatiently, irritated at the interruption.

"There's an additional player, possibly...Met her on a bus, out of listening range, but we believe that is where the intelligence exchange occurred. He disembarked, she continued on. House registered to an R. Evershed." Just a hint of excitement, guarded for having been burned by words in the past, failures unacceptable.

"She's not a new player, far from it. Works for him, senior analyst, counter terrorism. Not unusual she would conduct the exchange, really. Its what I would have done, desk spook, innocuous, least likely to draw attention, or to be followed, monitored..." Bored, these details easily available, nothing new, surprising, useful.

"Hummm. Right. Okay." Hesitant, averse to punishment, understanding it coiled to strike, nevertheless.

"Is that the extent?"

"Yes. Well, no. There is...something. ..."

"Which is it, Yes or no?" _Christ, out with it would you please._

"He watched the bus, is all. Until it was out of sight. Right there in the open, knowing he was being tailed. It was careless of him, made me curious, so I maneuvered closer, thinking maybe I missed something, and, well, it were his face, it twigged something."

"Go on." _Now, this is something_.

"The look, it reminded me of how my dad used to look at me mam before she passed. Devoted, if I had to choose, but with something...a bit of wonder...Yeah, I'd guess wonderment, like he just couldn't believe his luck, right? And devoted, every spare moment he spent with me mam. Just couldn't get enough, I guess. Devastated when she passed. Never fully recovered, truth told. Not to this very day, just a shell. Its been nigh on about four years now."

"Interesting." _Very. So, not a wholly useless exercise after all then._

"Yeah, but, like you said, if she works for him, then...its probably nothing. Maybe he wasn't even watching the bus, yeah? He's tricky, Pearce is. Enjoyed running us around. He even-"

"Is that all? Good. And, ahh, let's leave further musings on your parents to the romantic novelists, shall we? Not a word of any of this, do you understand? Best also not to alert anyone to your penchant for intuitions, no? A bit too feminine..."

"Yes. Understood. Thank you." Scurrying, as would a rat, back into the corners, thankful to have been granted leave, eager to escape scrutiny of one so unapologetically unnerving.

_Oh my, Harry, to be so uncharacteristically careless._

_I had hoped this more a challenge._

_So be it._

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**A/N: Quite a bit happening in this chapter, and while I'm not entirely happy with it, I'm am content to lay blame at having been on vacation as the root cause for not publishing something with, IMHO, a more satisfactory flow to my own ears. Regardless, I hope that you enjoy, reviews, as always, are embraced and treasured.**


	8. Chapter 8

"Now there is a line

In Genesis 9

After the flood

Kill men who shed the blood

Sharp is your needle

Revenge is evil

Wrong or right

Blind as your justice

Cold as a Judas kiss

Dark as the night

Dead petals falling on the bed

White crosses hanging overhead

Deep is the final breath

Long as a man's death"

*Alex Parker, Another Bleeding Heart*

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The room, dimly lit, dark paneling lining one side, the rich, jewel tone color of the opposite wall reflecting off the glossy surface of the expansive oak conference table, gave the observer every impression of having been stolen from some poorly secured soundstage, a set designer's interpretation of espionage, where spies congregate, stereotypically ominous, lacking only scantily clad, voluptuous women with curiously suggestive names, and the gratuitous roulette table. The scent of spent cigar and cigarette smoke invaded every available porous surface, infused the books standing, alphabetical and idle on their massive shelves, clung to the heavy drapes that muffled the sounds of life surging beyond the ornate floor to ceiling windows, the barges and tourist ferries on the Thames beyond, ordinary lives being lived, blissful and unaware, as those seated within the needlessly ostentatious room determined their future, the future of generations to come.

It was, despite the arguably prosaic decor, the accepted nerve center to those present, each taking their assigned place, assuming their seat of power, the puppet masters, pulling invisible strings, those that unaccountably _make things happen_, the sun and moon their marbles to trade between them. Drinks having been distributed, ashtrays at the ready, the solitary footman entrusted to such duties quietly excused himself, customary duties completed, to the outer foyer, carefully unwrapping the sandwich his wife had prepared for him, scolding him for the late hours he kept, _I just miss you so_, breathy in his ear, plasticized smile coating her features. He wondered if she knew he was aware of her trysts with their neighbor, ruminating, as he waited, on various appropriate punishments for cuckolding him, some emerging blunt and straightforward, while others elaborate and fanciful, bordering on hedonistic, each image unfolding, providing sustenance of a gratifyingly nefarious sort.

He was concentrating on the exact dosage proportionate to a gradual poisoning, that nature of reoccurring illness which spoke to a genetic weakness in physiology rather than murder, when a late arrival interrupted his meditations, a curt _good evening, _whispered in passing, followed by the almost inaudible _click_ as the heavy door closed behind. Momentarily distracted, sandwich cradled in his stomach like a brick, _damned woman_, the footman began the game he'd created on evenings such as this, initiated some time ago to wile the hours, entertaining himself as he sat in solitude and silence. He called it _Identify, _and it consisted of systematically reconstructing every detail associated with each individual within the luxurious chamber just beyond, and over time, he has become quite good at closing his eyes, like a child playing at dressing dolls, drawing from brief, stilted interactions, an perfect replica of each attendee in his mind's eye. He shivers then, the tickle sweeping up his spine, the chill spreading across his back, pooling just above his buttocks, his instinctual reaction to fearful circumstances, and while _Identify_ is played entirely in his head, the fear of being found out, discovered mentally documenting the existence of ghosts, bogeymen, their eyes penetrating and squeezing his thoughts into the open remained an unpleasant, though realistic, image long after completed for the evening. He knows there is precious little certainty in life beyond death and taxes, _bless_, he has, nevertheless, accepted that there are two presently in residence whom he will never, with any accuracy, be able to recreate, each appearing briefly, and then gone, leaving him with the impression each had literally evaporated into thin air.

He didn't laud himself an intellectual, but he knew, like he knew day follows night, these were unscrupulous people, duplicitous, wearing disingenuous smiles as they destroy you, the kind that leave lesser men broken, left to incongruously wonder, even as they arrogantly brandish the bloodied knife, nodding silently as they smile into your eyes, _did you do this to me, or did I do this to myself_? These people would never find themselves cuckolded, entertaining fantasies of revenge because imagining is the worst they could do. No, these people, less than ten feet away behind a closed, soundproofed door, could do all his imagination could design, each given opportunity to delve deep into the darkened heart that beats within, exempted from the rules for having designed them to begin with. They are the ones others whisper about in hushed tones, fearing they will be overheard, nervous at being called to account, those shadows lurking under your bed who know you better than you know yourself, and manipulate it to their collective advantage. Worse still, the kind for which there will never be punishment, but rewards whose breadth and magnitude cause his eyes to blur, his head to throb, with the imagining.

More to the immediate point, they could make him disappear, erase any trace of his meager existence, rub him out like an offensive stain on an innocuous rug, his purpose fulfilled, rendered dispensable. A troubling thought, but not so disruptive that he declines the opportunity for extra income, an admittedly obscene amount, but he'd grown rather fond of the obscene facets life provides those willing in recent months. Best be prepared, he rationalizes, in the event he needs to leave suddenly, evasion being an expensive proposition, identities requiring payment in untraceable cash. He won't make the same mistakes he'd made with his first wife, an act, poorly planned, which first brought him into contact with them, the collective, as he'd come to refer to them. He'd happily continue, mistakenly taken for a simpleton, stockpiling the necessary funds, standing sentry in solitude, outside, while musing on elaborate solutions to ridding himself of another scheming wife, defining the characteristics which would be required in the next.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

The meeting having previously been called to order, the late addition silently crossed the room, a walking, indistinct shadow, sliding smoothly into the assigned leather club chair, flipping open the report provided for review, quickly assessing the topic under discussion, face a mask of calm indifference, practiced in giving nothing of internal calculations away, years in the making, the single concession made for being tardy, a stunted, barely there nod in the direction of the darkened corner. Or, more accurately, towards the shoes illuminated against the rich royal blue carpet on which they rested, shined to a blinding luster, the wearer hidden in the depths of gloom, the right foot tapping, once, recognition, in return.

"He's impenetrable professionally!" Vaulting theatrically from the chair, barely acknowledging the late arrival before throwing the report across the table, pacing furiously as the papers within, suddenly unsheathed, sifted through the air, coming to rest lazily, haphazardly about the floor, forgotten.

"Word is he's got McTaggart's manuscript squirreled away somewhere, for Christ's sake," another presence, turning from the window, the soft _whoosh_ as the heavy velvet curtains fell back into place, punching the air with an extended finger, an angry child intent on popping a balloon belonging to another. "Could be used against more than a few of us...fucking Clive McTaggart...bloody thorns our sides, both of them!"

"Quite an accomplishment, given one is dead." Calm, smooth voice, deliberately pandering as to an intellectual inferior, speaking slowly, enunciating each word, tongue massaging each consonant, enjoying the growing frustration reflected back, contemplative as the insult strikes, the evaluation communicated, _Oh, do shut up_, _the adults are speaking._

_"_That's one short of necessary, as far as I'm concerned." Reclaiming the dramatically vacated leather chair, petulant as an excessively pampered brat, the retort sniffed out, chin jutting, spoiling for an equally debilitating effect, sullen as the result proved impotent, mouth forming into an ugly sneer. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Not relevant." A wave of the hand, dismissive in countenance, passively observing as another in their ranks crumbled from the strain, predictable though it may have been. The schemes they designed required patience, perseverance, a cast iron constitution to prove successful. Elaborate displays of histrionics had no place within these walls, and thus regarded as a crass indulgence of an inappropriate and weak juvenile nature.

"Perhaps what is needed is a drink?" The soft lighting illuminating small portions of the face, the slight tic under the left eye was easily observed. So too, the almost undetectable tremor of hand, the repeated fondling of mouth, unconscious, methodical. _Oh, yes, need for a drink rather scratches the surface._

_"__Wouldn't you agree?" _Querulous_, _recklessly fractious with redundant insistence_, _each word a verbal bullet, designed to constrain and anchor, the intended damage a voluntary verbal enslavement if answered, infinite, rather than an absolute, fatal end, finite. _While that is a lovely apple, I'll not bite, thank you. This garden isn't as secure as I would encourage you to believe._

"As I said, _Not. Relevant_." Extending the tumbler, the generous portion of contents intended as a deterrent to further discussion in this vein, the environment surrounding replete with technological eyes and ears, though known as fact only to a few present, voluntary enslavement successfully, if only momentarily, avoided.

"We're not talking about some innocuous chess piece here." A new voice, emanating from the corner, equally calm and measured, rationality and precision a welcome contribution, equilibrium restored, temporarily.

"This is Pearce, not some infant fresh from the farm." Legs uncrossed, leaning forward into the dim light, features appearing briefly, mouth a grim line. "Very few things have the power to unnerve me in this life, and I'm certain I'm not alone in stating the current head of Five is one of those few." Pausing to look at each in turn, years of experience well known to all present, effectively impeding any urge to disagree, let alone argue or question position.

"His arsenal is impressive, of that you should have little doubt. He'll use it, ruthlessly, without a second thought." Sighing, leaning back, face reclaimed by the shadows, pale fingers brushing at imaginary lint found on the surface of an impeccably clad knee, the disagreement both unnecessary and resolved in one, the simmering impatience bred of cultivating the long game, the goal months, even years in the distance, communicated to all effortlessly, bored with the repetitive chore of having to remind. "Best we stick with bringing him on side. Safer..._for everyone_." Eyes hidden, yet still direct, unflinching, as though examining the best way to pull the wings from a moth while ensuring the uninterrupted extension of torture, entertainment of a particularly corrupted intellectual sort.

"There is another...opportunity...that has rather unexpectedly presented itself." Eyes scanning the room, evaluating measure of interest, finding it palpable, vulnerable to exploitation. A favorite exercise, this. Folding one's personal agenda within the guise of another previously established, the delicate art of convincing others your agenda is their creation, and you merely bowing before their greater minds at work, obligingly affable, suitably awed, silently watching as your intended ends take shape and form, the cell becoming the tumor as you spoon feed every morsel into the readied and open mouths gaping before you. _ I was born for this._

"Impenetrable, both professionally and personally, are we agreed?" Waiting as those present assented, a synchronistic nodding of agreement, relishing their collective attention, compelled to silence at this new development, the first of many morsels.

"More to the point, a direct move against him, say, for example, involving his children, or his agents, we've established, would be far too obvious, a futile effort at best. Even the considerable amount of time spent developing such scenarios was a wasted effort." The smile slowly forming, indulgent, hiding the internal distain, the chronic distaste for the act of wasting time, criminal, offensive on a personal level, deeply resented and tabulated, as was habit, the catalogues, legion.

The backhanded insult having penetrated the soft, malleable vanity, layer upon layer of combined ego on display in varying degrees of strength throughout the room, volatile, easily affronted, tedious in weakness, the sense of personal satisfaction beginning to wane as the ease of insult, the opportunity to poke at simpletons, increased in frequency, the blood beginning to thin between sharp teeth, less vibrant and potent, yet habitually irresistible. _Who will it be this time?_

"Much as I enjoy a history lesson, yours is a well travelled path I find little to no inter-"

_Ah, disappointingly predictable as always._ "A back door has presented itself, completely unexpected, unforeseeable after all this time, but which will, by that exact nature, prove fortuitous to our ends." Interrupting, teeth clenching against the overt sarcasm meant to goad, mouth not so much forming the words as spitting, each slicing through the air in response, refusing the bait.

"Elaborate, please. Starting with how you came by this..._back door._..of yours." Skeptical, cool, feminine tone, a purr, not surprising, though annoying in its latent rote predictability, another slight catalogued, this nest of vipers, merciless within and without, callously re-imagining alliances, relentlessly brutal in chasing their varied goals, single minded in their shared self absorption, justifications, desire to keep their own hands spotless.

"As it happens, it was in front of us the entire time." Smiling as the shock made itself known on the faces present, preemptively cherishing the inevitable gratitude for divining a solution otherwise given up for lost, a challenge unvanquished, the morsels bestowed meticulously, each more beguiling than the last. "We simply failed to...consider the...possibility, is all. Ironic, now, really." Holding the tumbler up to the light, observing the crystal colors spark and shine, the amber liquid change hue and depth as it swirled within, watching the legs make their way slowly down the inside of the glass with hooded eyes. "That he would hand us the very thing needed to suit our purpose, provide the means for his own undoing. Unusually careless, even."

"Dangerous assumption, there. Pearce is not a careless man, never has been. Thoughtless, singleminded, ruthless, callous, brutal even, at times...many times. But _careless_? I can count the number on one hand, minus a couple of fingers." Holding up three fingers in superfluous illustration, and the urge to inform that a thumb is not a finger becomes very nearly impossible to resist.

"You understand he could just as easily be running you about. He's imminently capable. You know that as well as I, well..._we_, do." The purr taking on a slightly hardened edge, hand extended, palm up, sweeping through the air, the pantomimed equivalent of _and, I speak for everyone here. _

_Certainly, lets get everyone's opinion, shall we? All the time in the fucking world._

Heads nodding affirmatively, in unison, sheep all, almost laughable as observed, their esteem for Harry Pearce matched only in their collective suspicion for the reliability of this newfound intelligence, its sudden revelation a serendipitous event deserving of wide berth, forensic examination, their confidence in Harry's innate skill verging an embarrassingly awestruck in nature.

"You understand our...hesitation, surely. Or, shall I expand? Amanda Roe, Robert Morgan, Dicky, Khurvin, all designed to succeed, involving agents of your choosing, all spectacularly costly failures." The seductive purr now all but gone, replaced by thinly veiled contempt, mouth curving in an ugly sneer.

"Results were not as expected, fair enough, though the Khurvin-"

"_Results were not as expected? Christ, _we're not talking about a child's disappointing science project. This undertaking, this cultivation, _all of it,_ is a new world order, and I, frankly, am no longer confident you can either deliver on, or handle, your required contribution. I question whether you _have the balls_." Each word emphasized, the attack on full display, finger tapping the table with each poison dart.

"Interesting. Care to test that theory?" Leaning forward, cold eyes gleaming with prospective challenge, welcoming it with serpentine appetite, an unapologetic willingness to consume and swallow whole.

"I'm sorry, are we throwing our cocks on the table now? If so, I suspect you'd fail in that, as well." Purr reasserted, the tone cloying, disingenuous, unnerving to the ear.

"Making you a hermaphrodite. How very provocative-" Eyebrow raised, smirking in return.

"And you a eunuch." Eyes dead center, unblinking, the master stroke delivered, awaiting response.

"Fuck you." _Fuck you, and your moth-eaten..._

"Well, now that _is_ a bit out of your wheelhouse, isn't it?" Eyes wide with feigned innocence, voice saccharine sweet.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you're not the only one in the room capable of covert surveillance. What exactly draws you to them, their rugby uniforms or their prepubescence?"

_I'm going to enjoy watching you twist, listening as you beg me to save you._

"Enough." Issued calmly from the corner, a wearisome participant, resigned, yet fundamentally intolerant of these habitual outbursts, the oneupmanship of clashing individual temperaments. Like rats in a cage, unavoidable they would begin to view each other as a meal, their frequent tendency to nip and bite at any opposition, tedious, all the succulence and appeal of rotted, festering meat spoiling in the sunshine.

"If I might be allowed a bit of time, I could arrange for the placement of surveillance-" adopting a genial tone, despite the verbal barrage, despite the expected distrust, placing the morsel before them, contentedly awaiting the first to reach forward, claiming first taste.

"Christ, the man could sniff _that_ out in the midst of a bloody coma..._For fuck's sake_, _have you not been listening?" _Pacing resumed, fraying at the edges, pouring another measure, the routine of self medication, the exasperation felt by all for having to endure an additional outburst, witness yet another conspicuous display of in-fortitude and weakness, pronounced, discernible, eyes glaring, collectively, at the offender.

"AS WE ARE MOST PAINFULLY AWARE, YOU MEWLING INFANT!" Thundering, all efforts to remain serene and patient exhausted, emerging from the solitude of darkness, the corner emanating malice, white knuckled against the strain, an uncomfortably shifting audience, eyes now round with shock, surprise, distaste mixed with apprehension, understandable given the myriad of reputations assembled, the extended moments of silence suitably awkward as the seconds passed, ruffled feathers smoothed, masks reapplied with exacting precision.

"Please, do sit down, and shut up." Throats clearing intermittently within the room, the genial tone of moments ago reestablished, calm indifference projected from a source deep within, controlled, again, the menacing visage so familiar firmly back in place. "We all have our skeletons. Move on."

"The..._placement of surveillance_, which...as was so eloquently pointed out...would be waisted on him, I suspect will prove quite...bountiful placed elsewhere." Chin resting on the tips of templed fingers, eyes concentrating on the middle space, mind appearing elsewhere, likely constructing elaborate wish lists of technological gadgetry suited to the task, the names of persons uniquely qualified, skills precisely attuned effortlessly forming.

"That place being? And I am rather tiring of this bit of cat and mouse..."

"A house. More specifically, a woman's house." _Perhaps you'll find that cat and mouse more to your liking, preening twat._

"Ahhh. Well...that...that is...interesting."

"Do we have a name?" Delivered in a whisper from the corner, emerging from the shadows, attention keen, taking the stage, unseen.

"Evershed." Eyes narrowed in return, peering towards the darkness breathing in the corner, the audience momentarily forgotten.

"Wait, what? Did you...The analyst? You're certain?" Looking excitedly around, every bit the salivating, riled dog, rabid for salacious details, crass and unimaginably tedious to the rest. "You're certain...no doubts, he's fucking her? Christ's tears, she's...what, bloody twenty, twenty-five? And he's fucking her? You've indisputable proof?"

"_Precisely_ what surveillance was designed for. _I should have thought that obvious_." The gradual smile deceptively obliging, the last addition carried past subtlety curved lips, delivered in a dismissive tone, deliberately contemptuous, as close to a pat on the head of an overexcited family pet as would be wise to risk presently. The eyes, nevertheless, sharpened as they continued to peer into the darkened corner, confident the sting of insult had found its target elsewhere, difficult to miss given the elaborate and preening display of vanity and ego the group had been forced, by necessity, to endure, _for the greater good_, throughout these measured and lengthy gatherings.

"You've agents appropriate to the task in place then?" The conversation thus devolved, as was increasingly customary, to include only the two, the Alpha seated apart, enshrouded in darkness, and that counterpart, by necessity a foil, in design the Omega, eyes sharp, meditative, calmly placing the morsels of intelligence down for the others, subordinates, to silently follow, ingest, interjecting barbs, cutting insults at will, the two together, a tenuous alliance, each believing themselves superior to the whole, silently raging within the pack, maintaining a delicate, shared dominance.

"Soon, yes. A woman for the placement, I think. Familiar with the analyst, so her presence shouldn't draw any unwanted scrutiny. Very skilled, accomplished...presently semiretired, disillusioned, or so I've heard. Should be easily manipulated to side. I'll handle the arrangements, regardless." Eyebrow raised triumphantly, dipping a finger into the contents, circling the rim, drawing from the cut crystal tumbler a delicately wavering sound, musical, floating above the silence, yet inexplicably, vaguely obscene, the subtle imagery of innocence corrupted.

"She'll come to find it...favorable...to see things my way." A deft puppet master relishing the euphoria of power, the adrenaline of ambition surpassing all other forms, rather sexual in nature, the satisfaction of another's submission, the draw of divining pain, the manipulative power of secrets known.

_Disillusioned_, a paltry excuse for description, dissolving from within, the volatile extraction of her soul, slowly, fiber by ephemeral fiber until extinct, more accurate, without doubt, purposefully withheld from verbal exchange, extraneous details singularly useful in the knowing, rather than the public divulging. The cornerstone intrinsic to amassing power, the refinement of knowledge, the _knowing_, the nine lives of a cat protected within, awaiting use, providing and withholding in turn, calculated, cold-blooded, the potency of restraint. Those who fancied their chances at usurping position would be well advised to reconsider. That, or update their current will and testament.

"Make the arrangements. Let's call it an end, for the moment." The disembodied voice speaking from the distance, the gathering thus adjourned, each participant took their leave, whispered words, hushed in deference to the two who remained seated, their collective tongues caressing these new developments as they exited, the seduction of gossip, a lurid opiate impervious to caution, the act of fucking a subordinate proving too delicious not to sink one's teeth into, unavoidably effective bait, as was expected by them both, playing a chess game unknown to the others.

Unfolding from the corner, extinguishing the surveillance present in the room via a control switch hidden within the bookcase in passing, moving towards a vacated club chair, the dim light illuminating a vibrantly colored shirt, tailored lines accentuated, custom made, the moneyed accouterments befitting an Alpha, taking the crystal tumbler as it is offered, the chair's position balancing, exactly, it's opposite across the expanse of darkened oak, facing a likewise festooned and coutured Omega, sipping intermittently, eyes watchful above the rim,

"Am I correct in assuming the proposed surveillance has been initiated?"

"A week ago. She installed both audio and video, as we agreed. I was briefly concerned...Evershed appeared to sense something amiss, though we couldn't identify why. Nothing to concern ourselves with, her routine remains predictable. Nothing to indicate she's aware, in any case."

"You're still nursing that wound." A statement of vapid fact, exhaled as undisguised exasperation.

"Not at all. She tried her hand and, surprisingly, was successful in circumventing-"

"_You_. She circumvented you, and by doing so, allowed Pearce enough time to deal with the Quinn situation. He should have been removed _then_. I fear you have gravely underestimated them."

"_Underestimated them_? You would prefer I genuflect in accordance with the sycophants that just left this room? It is precisely because I don't underestimate them, _him_ more specifically, that I'm even sitting here."

"Your point being?"

"That it takes a game player to beat a game player. We're cut from the same cloth, he and I. Don't make the mistake of discounting our...history. History can be wonderfully informative. With Evershed in play, the game significantly tilts in our favor. I can predict with complete accuracy what his play will be. His history tells the tale."

"How so?"

"That's need to know territory. All _you_ need to know is lovers or not, he'll want to protect the analyst."

"Pulled her right out from under you, didn't he?" Chuckling, recognizing that for someone possessing this manner of temperament, the wound of having been outsmarted festers, an offense which required a correlating consequence.

"She was slated for elsewhere but, to be clear, _I declined_. No one made off with her under my nose." _Cagey bastard bagged her before the interview was even completed. I know because I watched the video. Not that I would admit as much aloud._

"_Of course_. And direct contact will occur..."

"Tomorrow. Details of the committee were provided, as instructed, some time ago. The suicide, when viewed from that perspective, was strategically useful. Rubbish, but useful."

"So, extrapolating, Wells is rather...off, as has been intimated?"

"Without question. Fortuitous, really, the association with Haigh, and by extension, Evershed...you have seen the psych assessments I provided?"

Nodding, silently plotting, appearance that of a deceptively still and tranquil pond.

"It's all there, albeit only to the trained eye. The operation she was most recently involved in was completed satisfactorily. If all goes as planned, the removal of our primary obstacle should occur within, if I had to pinpoint, twenty, maybe thirty hours."

"Shame."

"I'm sorry?"

"She was an excellent agent. If it weren't for the Haigh distraction-"

"Fixation..."

"Quite." Pausing, progression measured, prudent. "She understands...She's prepared to die?"

"It appears so. You've read the assessments...Psychobabble about having turned a corner on some indeterminate clinical scale." Fingers pinching the nose at the bridge, irritation for psychological weaknesses in others on display despite their frequently manipulated usefulness. "Her skills remain useful, however. Mentally I'm confident she can perform, but emotionally...a walking powder keg, and rather fortunately for us as such, one less loose end, it would seem." Pulling a folder secreted from a compartment hidden within the underside of the table, sliding it across its smooth surface, a simple flick of a finger, the distance between travelled effortlessly.

"Anything of note from the house?" Drawing the additional report closer, eager to examine the details within, a mask of nonchalance adopted to hide behind, not a ripple of disruption in the offing.

"Nothing. If he's involved with her, sexually speaking, the physical...expression is occurring elsewhere. Not surprising, we're talking Harry Pearce, here, not your average politician."

"I'd put my money on unconsummated, tentative courting, if I had to guess," leafing casually through the additional report. "It would be preferable...to our goal. Rather lending a heightened sense of loss...just that much more acute, hard to ignore, hard to maintain rationality. More to the point, easier to manipulate." Brows furrowed, attention drawn to some obscure detail, "She's thirty-four. Where did twenty come from?"

Rolling eyes, the unspoken _who fucking knows _communicated effectively. "An idiot. De rigueur for every group whose agenda is devoted to undermining the accepted status quo. Keeps us honest." Smirking, the half smile an unnervingly ghastly imitation of happiness.

"A particularly appropriate fall guy. Couldn't happen to a more deserving person. Master stroke there." Closing the file, content to examine it further later, anxious to part company, but for the threads, the ever expanding network of threads comprising their web, all needing constant handling, massaging, delicate and tedious busy work, exhausting and exhilarating in one.

"And Shaw? I'm assuming she initiated this surveillance?" Manicured fingers tapping absently on the closed report, attention beginning to wane, well travelled paths of manipulation proving wearisome, tedious with frequency of usage.

"Nursing a bruised ego, I would assume. He's not interested. Ironically, it was his refusal that led to the latest intelligence. She brought it to my attention, if you can believe it. Dropped it right in my lap." Head shaking side to side, eyes closed, incredulity at their unexpected luck clear, the impression misogynistic, the frailty and weaknesses of women. The fact that Pearce has been under periodic surveillance since the Quinn cock-up was left unspoken, falling under the canopy of knowledge is power, secret knowledge is power, plus leverage.

"Started it some time ago. I'll leave you to guess why." Nodding, eyebrows raised, ruminating over the ease with which human beings never fail to undermine themselves, self inflicted wounds more pernicious than that dreamt up by even the most malignant of antagonist.

"Beware a woman scorned..." Fingers stilled, chin down, cold eyes gazing across from underneath thick, darkened lashes.

"Particularly one who's surmised who you do fancy. Christ but she's a vindictive bitch. And ambitious, which works in our favor. Dangle a carrot, and she'll do what she's told. As far as _you_ need to know, she's a necessary, but dispensable, catalyst." Striding purposefully across the room, retrieving an ashtray, lighting the tip of a much longed for cigarette, clicking the lighter's lid open and closed, the corresponding snapping sound designed to irritate the listener, the joys of obvious provocations, juvenile, yet still unsurpassed in the catalogue of personal satisfactions, imbalance the ultimate reward.

"Anything worth highlighting?" Watching with feigned disinterest, the expelled smoke circling above, undulating as it dissipates, only the stench remaining to merge with expensive cloth, an olfactory betrayer which would require elaborate lies of explanation later.

"It's all included, but as for highlights, surprisingly little. Between the two, they spend more time on the grid than outside. Pass card reports indicate either one is first to arrive, last to leave. Nothing obviously untoward, but there was a missing two hours, shortly after Clive's death, where they were both simultaneously unaccounted for. Well, _as far as Shaw knows_. I've included the pictures." Pausing, a direct and invasive stare, knowing instinctively the tells, the twitch of the mouth, strumming fingertips, suggesting the desire to reopen the report, examine the photos, intellectual fencing of a sort. "Physically suggestive, if I had to sum it up." _Gossip, a consistently effective weapon._

"You're rather overtly pleased with yourself." Unnerving, this ability to discern the inner thoughts secreted deeply within others. Useful, effective, even profitable. But alarmingly unnerving.

"Not without reason. He'll be blindsided." Smiling, extinguishing the spent cigarette, marring the pristine beauty of the crystal ashtray, enjoying the subtle imagery, the corresponding interest in the nature of lurid details marring the otherwise pristine reputation of the person seated across the table. _ I can read you just as effectively._

"I find resorting to these, _your,_ methods unseemly. We were supposed to be rid of him with Quinn. Then Khurvin. Would that he would simply see the value and benefits of joining...stubborn, hard headed bastard." Sniffing at the air, wrinkled nose manifesting as distaste, not the first, or likely last, occurrence. "I wonder, why is it I always feel in need of a scalding and rigorous bath after a meeting with you?"

"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, at a guess."

"Clever."

"Fondness for self flagellation, then? Look into it."

"You wouldn't be so cavalier were you the target. _Blindsided_, as it were."

"I wouldn't be so careless."

"I imagine that's exactly what he thinks."

"_He thinks, I know._ Significant difference."

"We shall see..." Inner alarm bells beginning to sound, a dangerous game, each move forward as likely to be as rewarding as, alternatively, producing the first step towards desolation, their alliance built with all the strength of filigreed, filmy webbing, and like a host spider, drawing the victim in, destroyed by his own hand and volition, one's chosen vice becoming a sudden inescapable downfall, trapped without recourse, awaiting an agonizing end. Overconfidence, vanity, a dangerous, internal betrayer, requiring systematic attention, the vice most likely and commonplace, perpetually addictive. Like power. Like knowledge. A cocktail, inebriating quickly, corroding from within.

"Indeed, we shall." Pausing, sizing up, resentments simmering, the catalogues of insults and innuendo wielded earlier erroneously addressed, stoking the tread upon vanity, suggesting an unacceptable position of inferiority, inadvisable to ignore.

"There is just one more detail of which you should be made aware." Draining the contents of the tumbler, placing it gently on the table, deliberate, methodical, face a mask of quiet contemplation, hiding the menace beneath.

"Change, necessary change, happens because decisions are made, and those decisions are made by people who have the courage to make them. But let's be clear, those decisions only evolve into action because of people who possess the skills and backbone to see the entire picture, the fortitude and mettle to know and do all that is required, the fearlessness to gather and document all the offensive, debauched, unseemly bits of pestilence secreted away to serve the greater end." Eyes hardened, face a visage of stone, cold, unyielding as the tongue prepares to flay.

"So while you sit there in your corner, hiding, understand this, you will never be clean. You dare to sit there, coating yourself in sanctimony and judge me? At best, you're the one who waits to be told by people like me what needs to happen, every sordid detail not fit for Christmas dinner because you haven't the skill or stomach to act. You want to remain clean, you need a fucking bath? Fuck you, and your misguided belief that we can, all of us, initiate this and remain pristine. You, my pious friend, are the worst kind of bloody hypocrite." Rejoicing as the face begins to pale, the skin grows tight around the eyes, the jaw clenches with words not spoken, the truth an ugly mirror to behold.

"And it may well sicken you, cause you to rail in the face of God, that there are people like me. Worse still, that you, and the silver spoon bed wetters just like you, the whole fucking lot of you, need people like me. We compensate for your collective and unfathomable levels of weakness, we balance, so don't start believing your own lies, the ones that help you sleep at night, washing your conscience clean with a, what was it, scalding and rigorous scrubbing? Have no illusions, you are, at the end of the day, nothing more than a sanctimonious, unctuous dilettante playing at world domination, and just a fucking filthy as me." Head tilted to the side, relaxing back into the chair, the single indication of awaiting a response the hand which reached to adjust a shirt cuff, smoothing first one, then the other, once done, folding together to rest on top of the table, still.

"How very kind of you to take the time. Now, shall we bring an end?" Uncomfortable with the menacing stare, the consistently serene countenance, the proven ability to divine internal calculations unspoken, the slight shiver along the spine alluding to having been involuntarily revealed, cold, a sliver of precognition that stings as it evolves, the stench of smoke nauseating, face revealing nothing of the disruptions within, voice smooth as honey, soft and caressing.

Rising in unison, each movement a reciprocal counterpart, they silently extend their exit, extinguishing the dim lighting, reactivating the hidden surveillance, puppeteers both, calling an end, an understood and momentary stalemate, each recognizing the considerable adversary in the other, their faces exuding confidence, mastery, loyalty, the lie inherent to all three roiling under the adopted, carefully constructed facades, shoes echoing the halls until silence vanquished the distance sound.

And as the silent footman returned home to receive the counterfeit arms of his adulterous wife, Ruth Evershed returned home to encounter a different manner of counterfeit woman, wearing the face of a sometime acquaintance, trailing the memory of Peter Haigh behind her, secreting an explosive document, unaware that they were, all of them, pawns moved about on a chessboard, an agenda unseen gaining strength, fueled by those who lauded themselves gods.

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**A/N: So, I do not advise writing a chapter where you can't identify anyone by gender or name. Surprisingly difficult, which accounts for the time delay for this one. Also, I'm trying to figure out where the idea that Harry was a master with the opposite sex came from. Is it cannon, or just our elaborate imaginations at work? Any suggestions would be welcomed, I just don't remember it being covered in great detail during the series (American, Netflix versions). Took some liberties with the basics of ****Diana****, and this chapter is much more dialogue driven, with very little H&amp;R, so forgive me, but I needed to establish some elements. Hope you enjoy, thanks for taking the time to read, and for reviewing, if you've the time. Also, if you've a mind, the songs that are quoted are lyrics which help me to define the mood in my head relative to each chapter. I'm curious, has anyone listened to them? No pressure.**


	9. Chapter 9

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**_A/N: My apologies for the delay, RL has a way of creeping in and leaving little time for anything else. While this chapter contains very little first person H/R, they are dancing along the periphery if you squint, and look closely. Now for the brief explanation: I wanted to explore the idea of a Ruth/Peter/Angela triangle, and flesh out a bit more history than what was offered for each character within the series, while keeping true to the underlying animosity that seemed to simmer between them in 4.10. So, with your kind indulgence, please allow me an imaginative AU digression oft to the left, where all kinds of things unseen and unknown happen. If I got the dates wrong, forgive me, and kindly indulge my overworked brain. Reviews, as always, are welcomed and treasured._**

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"Witch Hazel, Witch Hazel

Betrayal, betrayal

One gun on the table

Headshot if you're able

Is this happiness?

Is this happiness?

Is this happiness?

Is this happiness?"

_Is this Happiness, Lana Del Rey_

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_*November, 2003* (and somewhat proceeding, as memories have a habit of)_

She watched in silence as the landscape stretched beyond, a wildly uncontrolled pastoral countryside, with eyes more accustomed to structured cityscape, the cacophony and din of such more music than noise. The early morning frost still vaguely visible, had, nevertheless, given way slightly under the bright rays searing through the gathering clouds ahead, catching the light, setting each naturally fecund surface an ethereal shine, undisturbed, fresh and pristine, though slightly less vibrant than when they had traveled this road earlier. Or, maybe it was just the shine of anticipation which had dulled, that which was yet unknown becoming known in short turn, and the knowledge gained surreptitiously tarnishing the hopes one quietly nurtured.

Turing to him, she concentrated on his profile, the curve of his ear lobe, the slight protrusion of his lips that, in this moment, curved slightly upwards, a silent indication he was aware of her scrutiny, though he had not turned towards her, joined his eyes to hers, spoken a word, in fact, since their departure.

"You've missed a spot, love." Reaching across to caress the area just below his jaw that never failed to escape the blade's edge, feeling the corse bristles against her fingertips, tickling the spot just behind his ear that only she knew about. His grin and subsequent squirm to evade further torture, trapping her fingers between his left shoulder and jaw to prevent movement, the steps inherent to a dance they had danced before, a familiar comfort designed to ease tension, balanced and harmoniously in tune, despite the world they find themselves in.

"Your descriptions of them were a tad bit...superficial." And now he did turn, his face bearing something of a grimace akin to _Please, not now, _and her hand dropped listlessly with a soft thump to her lap, losing the connection, her quiet _It's not a criticism,_ sounded, to her ear, more a plea than declarative statement of fact.

Deep breath, exhaled in frustration, forcefully through his briefly flared nostrils, his lips pursed into a thin line, the visage and sounds emanating off someone attempting patience, and failing miserably. She watched as he drew deep from his flask that had been settled between his legs, filled prior to their departure, a gregarious _one for the road_ by way of explanation to those observing the ritual, and replayed the bullet points of information regarding his family, the precious bits of detail offered in previous conversations, sparse and cautiously meted out, not allowing too much, and in the clinical absence of details, allowing all too much left unsaid. A torturous playground for her inherent imagination.

_"__My father, David, architect, married to Elizabeth, step-mum, widow of Daniel Evershed, mother of Ruth, stepsister, analyst at Thames." _ Always the pedestrian, unvarnished facts, distilled down to the barest essentials, the dregs matted against the bottom of a bottle, always spoken in matter of fact tones, bullet points of a subject he found both tiresome and mundane, his ability to comprehend her need to rehearse, her inherent ritual of learning a legend, though seemingly lost to him, easy for her to reconcile. His professional duties, while within the realm of security, never extended beyond who he was, never required he assume an identity, fabricate a life from thin air, manipulate, lie, cajole...kill. She swallowed the lie without difficulty then, and now, despite the voice in her head whispering, _there's more, there's always more._

In the beginning, during the first burgeoning moments comprising the tender first blush characteristic of all budding relationships, she had learned quickly that he didn't enjoy the subject of his family. And, after their first night spent together at his, she had noticed but a few select photographs suggesting he'd even possessed a past, a period of life which preceded her presence, a life lived before her. The tells were obvious, even for one who was not as skilled as she. He would adopt a scowl, marring his otherwise handsome face, a thundercloud suddenly forming in an otherwise azure sky, and he would reach for the whisky, adding a healthy dollop to his morning coffee, or tea, predictable as the sun setting, his mood becoming as dark as that tenuous period before an unforeseen eclipse, blinding her to everything in the momentary absence of light as it rolled across his weary face.

She had fallen hard, surprisingly quickly, as she thinks on it now, his secrets held close, his ability to remain distant from her proving seductive in ways she couldn't have imagined, or predicted. Her inability to divine him, the depths of him, remained, to this very moment, an insatiable curiosity to her, fueling her lusts and love in a not disproportionate manner. That he was also employed by the security services was fortunate, as he never asked questions regarding what she did, where she had been. Their long absences from one another were customarily punctuated by smuggled, clandestine messages, fueling her longing for him, their resulting reunions cataclysmic and soul shaking to her, his need _not_ to know forming the foundation on which their entire revolution together was built on. _Secret spy lovers, _she entertained when daydreaming in his absence, _meant to be_ when laying supine and sated next to him, his seed drying between her thighs, and he, softly snoring, next to her, spent.

Even now, as they make their way homeward to his, she feels the tingle of excitement pulsing within the folds of her sex, the unquenchable thirst to have him inside her, joining them, his violent thrusts into her almost cresting the threshold of pain, her mind blotting out all thoughts save for the feel of him, stretching her beyond limits, his grunted words culminating in a roar of release in her ear, and she bucking with her own, hips bruising as they batter against one another, chasing the wave.

Their sexual encounters became, and remained, tinged with violence, and she found the freedom she felt with him a welcome result. He made love as one would approach a fist fight with a worthy opponent, angry, adrenaline pumping, grabbing and taking, rather than marked by a soft caress, the gentle coaxing with words, and she found she responded in kind, enjoyed the aggressive, combustable nature of it. They fought, they fucked, full stop. She had never been one for fairy tales, gentlemen callers, and the like. She much preferred the full frontal assault of a good and thorough fuck. It had never occurred to her to question the lack of tenderness characteristic of their frequent couplings. Just as it never occurred to her to question his inherent distance, his habitual need to remain just this side of apart in their togetherness. It worked, why fix what isn't broken, she told herself, despite the quiet voice sounding in unguarded moments, _but is it unbroken?_

Before today, she could, _would_ have easily silenced that voice, just as she had on numerous previous occasions that were sprinkled throughout the months nearing a year they had been together. But for today. The voice, once quiet and subtle, became, after a few short hours of arrival, a screeching din whose constant refrain made her appear, to those observing her, lost in thought, there, but not entirely cognizant, smiling at the appropriate times, but a hollow facsimile, disingenuous in the vein of a poorly selected actor frozen in the midst of soliloquy on stage, the steps known by rote, but the words fluttering away beyond reach.

If forced to choose between the evils of familial revelations, he preferred the topic of his parents, a subject she was slightly more versed in presently, the unsurprising result. He had rarely spoken of _her_, offering the basic biography, but lacking in embellishments. When she pushed him for more details, denying his right to privacy in the midst of union, she met with nothing short of a brick wall. And if she pushed, recklessly, still further, he had, literally, physically removed himself from her presence on several occasions.

The pictures were the sticking point, that minimal bit of evidence to the contrary one begins to notice when answers have been withheld. That thing that grows with every passing minute from innocuous into a soul crushing unknown which could tear one's life to shreds if it remained unaddressed. The photographs, she had thought to herself with a meditative, caustic regularity, carefully framed and placed within his home did share _her_ between them. In those fresh moments covertly watching, observing the delicate interactions between them, as they performed the ritual of family gatherings, she believed she had discovered the reason, the clamorous din within her head demanding she open her eyes, demanding she acknowledge what she did not care to know, her heart hardening in the face of unsolicited, yet perceived, evidence.

It was his overt gentleness which set her on edge, initially. It was innocent enough to the naked eye, but she was not a run of the mill observer. She was a trained spy, a virtuoso in her chosen craft, her element, the years of experience engrained, managed, nurtured to a polished gleam. He watched her wherever happened to alight, maintaining, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps deliberately, a distance between them of no more than two, maybe three feet, his eyes soft and adoring, so startlingly different from the eyes that looked into hers, distant and hidden.

The resentment that began to build within her, almost immediately, merged effortlessly in to a spike of jealousy tearing through her insides, ripping her open as she watched them speak excitedly with one another, words overlapping the others, laughter and amusement bursting from each, their eyes bright and loving with history, familiarity, in such a way as uncharacteristic of siblings, the tinge of inappropriateness coloring the periphery, though she appeared to be the only person willing to recognize it, and in the recognition, silently wilt in the face of its beaming radiance.

On the few occasions when he had spoken of her, his face did not reflect his affections, his clear adoration so obviously present whilst they had sat around the elaborate dining table, and she surmised it was her proximity now, versus her absence during these limited confessionals which provided the key difference, the heretofore missing element whose presence altered the nature of things thought known. Leaning towards her as she spoke animatedly about something, winking in return as she regaled those present of the mundane nature of her position with public works, her position with GCHQ, and then MI5, a shared secret between only a few present, something that, ironically, brought them closer together, rather than apart.

A light touch on the arm, a quick _oh, go on _imparted on a giggle, some little known tidbit regarding Diana, used to amuse her, succeeding brilliantly, the laughter tinkling around her ears like shards of glass shattering. She very nearly screamed, her desire to tear the smile from her face overwhelming, her need to break something, anything, coursing poisonously through her veins, and the nails of her right hand drew blood from her palm, staining the linen napkin, monogrammed with what she'd assumed was his family crest, the red drops marring the intricate needlework. As she looks down now, she can see the red crescents scaring her hand, joined with the needlework of previous scarring, crusted dry, telling the story of past jealousies, past resentments, past injustices and perceived slights to her person, all awaiting their time to paid in kind. Had she honestly believed she could change, outrun who she had been, who she was?

When it was time to leave, that tendency for all present to respond to the unspoken undercurrent which heralded the conclusion of family rituals, that moment when _I'm so glad I came, lovely to see you _did not further evolve into _Christ, when will this bloody rite be over, _she had offered a perfunctory embrace, as was custom in such matters, the kind which said _I'm doing this as is expected_, and a slight, brief squeeze before disengaging, stepping back and forgotten, watching at a distance as he approached to make their good byes, watching their eyes make contact, conversing silently as those persons well known to one another develop a gift for. She had never in her life felt such an acute sense of isolation, her limbs frosting over, her eyes sharpening as she observed their parting from one another.

Her ears, hearing the promised _we should get togethers in London, have dinner, a drink, the three of us,_ all posed by her, to him, deftly vocalized for the benefit of their respective parents, though known to her as empty, the customary script of partings remains constant through the years; his returned _I'll call you_, while grasping her hands, his thumbs brushing the tops of hers; that was the moment she knew, the moment to which the entire occasion would be distilled down, the pinprick found hidden in the center of a wound. Not _we'll_ call you, inclusive of her, but _I'll_ call you, exclusive in all the ways that mattered, his relationship with this woman separate, absolute, his alone. She knew with the certainty the sun would rise tomorrow that they already did see each other in London, knew it for fact, despite his lack of discourse on the matter, his admissions of such as lacking and deliberate as his failure in acknowledging her presence so daily close by.

"Ruth," He'd said it like a prayer, breathed into her ear as they embraced again, "You be careful, yes?" Smiling down at her, his considerable height accentuating her small stature, and her face upturned to his, nodding her ascent, stepping away, their hands joined until stretched to the limits of distance, fingertips dropping away as she exited, taking the path that would lead her to her car, and home.

Turning her gaze from the passenger window, she regarded his profile cautiously, half anticipating what she would learn, half dreading the presence of what she had come to refer to as _the smile_, that secretive smile which played on his face, curving his full lips slightly at the corners. That smile indicative of thoughts and internal musings, the enigmatical life flourishing within his mind, but separate from her, held tight and guarded, a life he had never, would never, share with her. He had never smiled thus when speaking about her, she knew. She was a spy of the first order, after all. Legendary in her own right, and to her trained eye, her tendency to covertly spy on him having become an obsession of sorts, she now knew instinctively that there was something, _something_ left unspoken, disguised amidst tidbits spoken, his sly smile on the topic of his past, specifically Ruth, becoming an irritating wound, the wood sliver in her palm she couldn't locate and discard. _Picking, picking, picking_, her mind's penchant for deconstruction, dissemination, a form of self mutilation as the weeks became months spent with him, loving him, adoring him, though she possessed not the whole of him.

"What."

A statement, not a question, his eyes direct, narrowed, preparing for the row, lining up the oft stated denials, the verbal thrust and parry between one wanting to know, and the other straining to hide.

"Nothing." _Just let it go_, she told herself, silently beseeching herself to maintain her calm disposition, albeit fabricated.

"Ang...don't do this. Not now. We're almost home. Just leave off, yeah?"

"Peter, I'm...I'm just tired." Reopening the crescents newly dried in her palm, an act of self discipline, self restraint. _ Who is Ruth to you, love? Is she walking the shadows in your head when you are with me? Is she the secret you hold in your shuttered heart?_

He had, in the past, though infrequently, mumbled names in his sleep, waking her as she slumbered contentedly curled against him. But it was her name, _Ruth_, which, before now, was indecipherable to her, a whisper on the air of a darkened room, gone before her sleep deadened brain could comprehend, her body snuggling closer to him even as he struggled to disengage from her naked form, pushing at her to move away, a mumbled _can't breathe_ accompanying his movements, and she abandoned in the too large bed to ignore the implication she was suffocating him with her affections.

She remembered that she had, upon waking, asked after her, this "Ruth" in his dreams, and it stopped him cold as he had crossed the room, his beautifully built frame naked and indiscriminately lit by the shards of early morning light escaping from behind the heavy, drawn curtains of his bedroom. It was early stages, yet, before she had learned not to ask, before recognition of signs became second nature as related to the characteristic and individual idiosyncrasy which blended to form the map of him.

"Where did you hear that name?" He hadn't turned, and, in truth, she was so bemused with the shape and admiration of his bum that she hadn't caught the slight catch in his question, the undercurrent of unexpressed anger at her inquiry.

"Humm? Oh, you were saying it in your sleep." Stretching full length, her sex sated limbs loose and light, eyes closed, missing his face as he turned to regard her, mussed and half asleep in a rumpled bed.

"If I were not a woman so recently, and satisfyingly, fucked, I might be alarmed by my lover whispering another's name whilst he slept." Smiling up at him, drawing her leg out and exposing her arousal, slick and enflamed. It was the first instance of thundercloud she could remember. The closing of his face, his right hand flexing at his side, his sleep clouded eyes sharpening to pinpoints, and then dulling, the change almost too subtle to accurately measure, too exquisitely practiced and understated that she'd thought to have imagined it. But her body, a finely tuned instrument gauging the depths of environments when her eyes could not fully reveal, her body knew she had touched on something which disturbed him deeply, innocently insinuating herself where she was not wanted, his face as placid and still as the surface of an abandoned pond, the life evolving, squirming and flowing repetitively beneath remaining a mystery despite the pristine tranquility above.

"Who is she, this Ruth?" Bringing a finger down to draw along her inner thigh, watching him as he watched her begin to masturbate herself, her fingers glistening, taunting herself, illuminating the path he had only recently begun to acquaint himself with.

"She's my stepsister. And stop that, _please_. It's...I can't talk about her, and watch you finger fuck yourself simultaneously. Choose one."

She had, climaxing thunderously as he lapped at her folds, biting her clit and pulling with just the amount of pressure necessary to make her come hard enough she feared she might break his nose.

But she couldn't let it go.

"So. Ruth." Tasting herself on his lips and tongue, his chin moist with her juices.

"Really, Angela?" He had abruptly moved away from her then, the places of moist contact between their bodies becoming cold in the absence, the sudden rush of air, and she felt, rather than consciously understood, her misstep. He'd offered nothing further then, save his rapidly retreating frame crossing the threshold of his bathroom, the shower head had shortly come to life as the door closed soundly, resolutely, against her with a backward thrust of his hand. She had lain there, watching patterns of light evolve along the walls and ceiling, the silence of her miscalculation deafening, and he had dressed and left without another word, having washed himself of her scent, her love, while her senses remained evermore immersed in his amongst the tangle of sheets.

And now, as then, with the clouds gathering strength in the horizon in front of them, tumultuous and roiling in the distance, she was incapable of letting it go, her recent observations a physical bile threatening to rise as the silent moments passed between them.

_Do you love me as I love you?_

_Do you love me, do you love me, do you love me?_

"Are you close to Ruth?"

"Jesus. Okay, you want to do this? Now? Fine." She knew the signs, knew them well, the path on the map of him well worn with time's passage, her need to know driving him away even as she sought to draw him closer. _Can't breathe..._

"You never answer the question."

"What bloody question?"

"Were you close? With Ruth?"

"Yes,"

"-And?"

"_And_ what? Jesus Angela, you've been a spook for too bloody fucking long, you know that? Leave off, will you? Just leave the fuck off!"

"Why can't we talk about her? You've pictures of her in yours, I know you talk occasionally, you've had meals in the city. Meals I was not asked to join, by the way."

"How-Are you-Have you been surveilling me? Having me followed!" His eyes wide, his face manifesting shock, anger, disgust, the words and tone, both, a verbal declaration of deeply felt loathing and incredulity.

"What the actual fuck, Angela!"

_"__What would you have me think!_ I may have been a spook for too long, but any woman would question your...Your relationship...The nature of it. It's as if she's your-"

"Don't. Seriously, Angela, don't even say it."

His jaw was bunched, set hard, each muscle working to control his temper, visibly detailed and defined, forming the intricate mechanism comprising the muscular landscape beneath his skin. And despite his potent volatility, the warning signs she had learned by rote, incorporated within the framework of her existence, one she could no longer imagine him cast without, she could not, would not, deny herself her right to know, her right to claim him, her right to strike the match and set all aflame.

"-Mistress."

"Fuck." Shaking his head, refusing to look at her, his hands white knuckled on the wheel, his single vulnerable spot exposed, she knew, flayed open, and she with her hands full of salt.

Violently jerking the wheel, skidding to a stop, listing dangerously leftwards, half in and out of a side ditch, her view of such momentarily obscured by the cloud of dirt lifted, catching up with them, and then continuing forward to rest undisturbed again at some distance. Horns blaring, shrieking as they speedily pass, the alarms of unsuspecting others jolted to their senses to avoid contact. He turned his head to face her, his mouth an ugly sneer, biting the words with gritted teeth, his eyes burning into her as a searing flame.

"She. Is. My. Stepsister. Were we close? Yes. Very close, if you must know. She made life at home, _with them, _tolerable. She was the reason I stayed as long as I did, but not for the reasons your subversive mind has obviously come up with. She was younger, that's all. Are you hearing me? Do you get it? I couldn't leave her with them. Not alone. Got it? Are we clear? She was..._God damn you, Angela_." His breathing was audible, a ragged intake slicing through the silence between them, cutting into her as a weapon. Squinting through the windshield, his effort to control himself concentrated even to the untrained eye. But this, _this_, was what she had wanted, was it not? The crack of thunder above made her reflexively jump, as though slapped, the air between them, confined and electric, each staring into the distance ahead, each bracing for what was yet to come.

"You have to understand, okay? Ruth was young. Very young, right?" Picking the words slowly, choosing each with deliberate care, attempting to hide even while divulging. Sighing deeply, the volatile outburst simmering, yet calmer in degree.

"She was wounded, and floundering...and utterly defenseless. I mean, Christ, I'm not judging her, but Elizabeth, for all her denials, she sent her away, far away after her father died. Just left her out there, on her own, no comfort or appropriate mourning period. Just packed her shit, and shipped her off to Paris. She didn't even speak the bloody language! Fast forward three years and _Hey, time to come back, Ruth. And, oh, by the way, I've remarried, his name is David, you'll love him._ Done and done. She deserved more, I don't know...respect? Care? The fact was, she was too much a reminder of Daniel, her father, and, well, Elizabeth was...poorly equipped."

"She was a bird with a broken wing."

"What?" Uttered after a moment, as though he had only realized they were engaged in conversation, his mind far away, entertained or distracted, she could not clearly fathom. It was enough to know that she did not achieve enough of his attention to surmount the power of _her_ name, the simple mention proving, for his thoughts, enticing in the extreme, a verbal seduction she could not hope to counter.

"A bird. A broken, traumatized bird. You were drawn to protect her, I understand. I do. Really. It's what made you so good at your job. With Diana, I mean, when you were still-She's the same, really."

"No. They are nothing alike." Turing his eyes to her, and her heart bled a bit, his face forming a look of disgust, the idea that she could possibly understand so ludicrous to him he failed in any effort to hide his distain, assuming, that is, he had even bothered. And she had reason to doubt. Now. Now, as her curiosity sat teetering the knife's edge of satisfaction, the feline awaiting her absolute death for having dared.

"Ruth isn't...She's no capacity for guile. She's not...malicious, if I had to assign a characteristic. She doesn't want a life lived on the stage of public scrutiny. She's...self contained, logical...A rational, deep thinker. If they shared any attribute its a higher than average capacity to empathize. In that, they are both extraordinary. She's never lost that. In all these years, it still burns bright within her."

The wry smile decorating his face lent itself to the idea that, though she was certain he would never chose to tell her willingly, there had been plenty in their shared past which would have crushed a lesser woman, this Ruth, whose generosity and empathy had been regaled in the grand halls of Thames House, the Home Office, even into the darkened hallways of Vauxhall. She was not unaware, if she were honest, of her reputation, and had, since that early morning when Peter had shut the door against her, quietly kept tabs on Ruth, the analyst, the woman who, it was whispered, possessed the rarified power to make Harry Pearce suddenly, and without notice, reverse position, reevaluate a corse of action, the understood conscience of The Grid proper.

Ruth had, in her quiet, unassuming way, entranced everyone, and while she herself was not likewise in thrall, she could imagine its effects likened to that feeling while watching a balloon lifting in the air, carried this way and that, unable to look away for fear of losing the thread, the moments of peace conveyed while attentive and enthralled too sweet to maintain distance, your feet moving to follow behind almost unconsciously, too sublime to turn away and disregard as a fluke at best, a fatal popping, and furious plummet waiting to happen, at worst.

She, grudgingly, respected her, and she had had more than passing indiscreet experiences with Harry Pearce. A few crescents in her hand could attest to their past associations. It was no small feat to move and immovable force, and Harry Pearce was a force to be reckoned with, to be certain. That Ruth had this ability was as confounding to many as fascinating, fodder for gossip, speculations ripe and bursting with the juice of misinformation. She had heard all of it, added to her own intelligence pilfering, and knew most of the gossip to be outright falsehoods, the musings of overactive imaginations hungry for the salacious and tawdry. She respected her, and, truth told, would want none other on the other end of reality should she find herself in trouble during an op, unrealistic as that situation would, no doubt, be.

Still, in her deepest musings, knew she would find herself not unhappily bereft of tears should she witness the plummet and subsequent crash as Ruth hit the ground, the balloon once airy and dreamy, shriveled and dull with downward passage, a stain, unidentifiable and forgotten under the soles of passerby, her own the first to leave their mark.

"Look at me." Drawing her back, the force of his voice suggesting he'd had to request her attention more than once, irritated and short.

"Her father's death, you-you simply can't understand the depth of losing a parent, yours are both still alive. But she and I, we had...we had, have, a bond...in that way. She was, God, I'll never forget it, Angela. One bag, that's all she had. After three years, and she came back with exactly what she left with. _One bloody bag_. She was just stood there, at the door. Waiting, her bag at her side. _Waiting_ to be let in because, well, it wasn't her home, you know? I think she always felt her home had died with her father. She never said, but its the feeling I got." Looking at his hands, the palms upturned, as though the story, the informative pictures of his life were somehow impressed upon them, the answers of a test barely studied for written, longhand, for the inevitable cheat. He had surprised her, providing information on a topic so long withheld, her stomach beginning to churn as she imagined the guillotine's blade dropping another inch on the path to her exposed, feline neck.

"I remember those little knobby knees, and she was thin. I mean, a gust of wind would have taken her away thin, with those blue eyes. Huge. Blue eyes. From her father's side, to hear Elizabeth tell it. Elizabeth, she was, is...well, you saw. She's a beautiful woman. But brittle, that kind of fragile beauty...like crystal, catching the light, refracting colors all around, but kinda, I don't know, lifeless when not the center of it all, in the spotlight, so to speak. You're left just looking, afraid to touch."

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, and she came to understand that while he did not particularly dislike Elizabeth, his affections did not extend much beyond tolerance of her. Neither did he appear to care beyond dutiful observances towards a step mother he had little, if anything, in common outside a spouse and daughter. Watching him as he again drew deeply from his flask, she was captivated by the movements of his throat, as the liquid claimed the path already worn, his Adam's apple rippling along the surface, the recently caressed bristles of his beard gliding effortlessly in companionship. _He'll need more before this is done_, she silently thought, and her stomach clenched a fraction tighter in answer.

"Ruth had a different kind of beauty. A resiliency in a way, of loyalty and kindness. I'm not describing it well, the picture, the...words." Shaking his head, his jaw clenching, unconsciously grinding against his inability to put into words the pictures floating across his memory, and sighing his defeat.

"Its the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you, and you are just sort of speechless when you realize its been there all along, and you too dazzled by the prisms of light her mother threw off in waves to see it. But our Ruth was beautiful inside, too. You wanted to touch it, that beauty, needed to because...it wan't fragile. It demanded to be touched and shared with those around her, and I remember thinking at the time how sorry I was that I hadn't the chance to know her father because in every way she was different from Elizabeth, she was a living testament, a legacy of sorts, to Daniel."

_Daniel Evershed. _He was also a secret left undivulged between the two of them, and she felt a minute tinge of guilt presently for her deliberate subterfuge. Ironically, She had heard of him, vaguely. A spark reignited in the recesses of her memory niggling after drawing from Peter the first initial bullet points of family flowcharts in the early stages. Building that spark into a flame, nurturing it patiently, had taken an ungodly, and frequently futile, amount of investigation before she had finally unmasked the diamond intel hiding its glimmer in the dusty stacks of forgotten records by lucky happenstance. Or Fate. Perhaps Fate, how was she to know in the end?

As it stood currently, her frequent past forays and covert ministrations had uncovered enough to learn Daniel Evershed had been one of numerous doctors made to sign the OSA, and was often called upon when an op had gone afoul, leaving the option for hospital effectively eliminated. Some of the names associated with his work were familiar to her, injured agents who served simultaneous to her years of active field service, and she was not altogether surprised to find Harry Pearce's name figured prominently amongst them. Yet, some were simply names on a page followed by a list of fatal injuries too numerous to circumvent, though it was obvious, even as she sat reading, he was a gifted physician.

She'd wondered, at the time, sat cross-legged while the dust of disused files filled her nostrils, if Harry had set his intentions years ago, identifying Ruth, daughter of Daniel, as one to keep an eye on, a legacy to protect, a duty undertaken in gratitude, an act of contrition for a man who had saved his life on what appeared to be more than a few occasions. It became another bit of intel secreted away within the voluminous stacks closely guarded within her mind, pulled out to examine whilst others gossiped openly about the two colleagues, something whose use was yet to be revealed, but present, nonetheless.

If Peter knew Daniel had been associated with Five, or Six for a time, she did not, would not, ever know for a certainty. But, his assessment that _Our Ruth_ was a living legacy to her father was a truer statement than she had any current desire to reveal, to anyone, least which Peter himself. That _Our Ruth_ remained unaware of her father's foray into spy craft was a certainty, though she would be hard pressed to detail the whys and hows she knew if asked. She knew, and that knowledge allowed her an advantage in her mind, that single necessary nugget of intel saved and protected until proving useful, debilitating, damaging to an opponent whilst struggling to regain their legs and balance. _Its simply how things are done, _she would say. _ Nothing personal, mind you, so sorry._ Secrets never failed to provide effective weaponry, and her ears were trained to capture even the softest of whispered words thought lost on the wind.

"She rarely, if ever, spoke about him." Drawn back from the dusty stacks in her mind, she was both surprised at Peter's willingness to continue, and struck by the wistful look decorating his face as he spoke, the lines somewhat smoothed, the flask, she'd noticed, set aside for the moment.

"I had this picture in my mind, you know? A little girl, with sagging socks, annoyingly underfoot, a pain, an albatross to be saddled with, any negative connotation applied, you know what I mean. We had never met so my imagination was given license to fill in the absent space that would soon become Ruth. An albatross or a haughty, brittle beauty like her mother, those were the front runners, at the time." Chuckling quietly, he had turned to look at her, and she formed her face into a smile, hiding both her apprehension and curiosity in one.

"Curiously, she was nothing of what I'd had imagined. Quite the opposite. I immediately found her contrary to every selfish, preconceived idea I'd deigned to create. Where I thought she would be underfoot, she would be found reading, in a corner, curled contentedly into herself and lost in her world of words. When I assumed she's be haughty, prim and reserved, I'd discovered she had a boisterously raucous laugh that could, when unleashed, shake the walls, and her delight in dark humor has yet to be surpassed by anyone since. She was ribald and sarcastic, dry and witty, and so unfathomably intelligent it was bloody frightening. And she was fun. God, she was so much fun to be around."

"One time, I'll never forget this," His eyes lighting up, bright with amusement and cherished memory, "I'd brought a mate over, some guy, can't remember who just now, but he'd made a pass at her, chatting her up, you know, all hormones and crude suggestion. Anyway, before I could even think to call him on it she'd launched into a dressing down that was just, _Jesus_, it was the fucking poetry of dressing downs. Seriously, it was magnificent, and all this guy could do...John, I think it was, yeah, that's right, John. All John could do was sit there, all slack jawed, eyes wide. Brilliant, just brilliant." Lowering his voice, adopting a continence in keeping with the _John_ bouncing around his memories, slouching, slack jawed, all languid adolescence in the driver's seat, "_I'm in love, mate. _That's all he could say. He was, if memory serves, irrevocably, from that moment on, though she never gave him a second glance. Not even once."

"She just had a way about her. Just did." Punctuated with a shrug, the casual nature of it a painful piercing, throbbing in time with the beat of her heart, as if to say, _Hey, some things don't require explanation. Some things just are. Best if you stop looking for answers now. Beyond here lies truths to make your blood run cold._

"It went on that way. We were close, yes. I mean, we fought, occasionally, like people confined together in one house do. But, overall, we were...there for one another, good times, or bad. And they got bad. Really bad, if I'm honest." The previous ease which had accompanied his prior revelations began to lose its luster, suddenly, dimmed and tarnished by those thoughts closely associated with _really bad_, the taste and smell, the ache and fear felt, realized again, beginning to etch itself into the lines materializing on his face anew, his hand reaching, again, for the discarded flask.

"Once, maybe, two or three years after she came home, I can't remember, but around that time our parents were having a bad time of it. Dad drank, and he was a mean drunk, to be honest. He was never physically abusive, but he understood the poison of a well delivered word, verbal taunting, argumentative, you get the idea. We...well...Ruth and I...left one day. Just walked out together. Just to get out of there. Just to breathe. Just to enjoy the silence. Just for a bit. I was...twenty? Yeah, about twenty, which would have made Ruth eighteen. Just turned, now that I think about it. So long ago."

"She was slated to attend Oxford in the fall. Her father's alma matter. So, like I said, I had been sticking around for her, going back a forth between there and home while she was still living there. I think we both felt time getting short, for us, that feeling of watching the way things were becoming the way things will be, like a spectator, not a part, just watching it unfold with nothing to protect yourself. I was already half out the door, like I said, attending Uni, and even though she would arrive in the fall, things just would be different, you know? Changed in a way that couldn't be undone. Like, ummm, losing something, someone you knew one way, and then having to relearn them, it, I don't know...it was a time when both of us felt foreboding. It should have been exciting, leaving the nest, striking out on your own a bit, infrequent visits home with laundry and all the food you could hope to eat, that kind of thing. It wasn't. Not for us. Not then." His hands were gripping the wheel before him, kneading it, and she abhorred the dull tone his voice had adopted. Gone was the light from his eyes, and the mirth in his voice, resuming their state of habitual hibernation, replaced by the drone of keen disillusionment, and a not so subtle avoidance to establish eye contact.

"So, when was this? I must have been home for some break, or another. Christmas, maybe? It was cold, I remember that. Freezing, so it must have been winter break. Anyway, I took one look at her, and knew things at home had deteriorated, and I...I didn't really think much about it. I just grabbed her, and pushed her out the door. Didn't even stop to grab a coat or scarf, just pushed her down the front path to whatever piece of shit car I had borrowed from a mate at the time. We could still hear the row from inside the car. They were really going at it, escalating in volume, some piece of kitchen wear shattering, and a couple of the neighbors had come out."

"God, she absolutely hated that. People talking about them, all of us. The gossip, speculation, you know the shit I'm talking about. Everybody with an opinion, no one living the actual reality. What is it? The well meaning concern of passerby draped in enough schadenfreude to choke a bloody horse. No shortage of that on our street."

"I'd gotten accustomed to it. The gossip, the spectator sport of family discord. Just the same, I'd offered a jaunty little salute in return, the proverbial _fuck you and your gossip, and, if you've the time, kindly go bugger yourself_. But, then, I was always harder than her. She just shrank further into herself, just...folded in...Made me feel like I was torturing her by remaining in front of the house...Leaving her alone to attend Oxford."

He had begun picking at the leather covering on the steering wheel, worrying the single loose thread, picking at it in the same way he was picking at the loose threads of time, memory, actions and consequences, his abject sorrow at having failed her in some deeply unfathomable way, Our Ruth, evident in his shoulders, slumped against the weight of responsibility.

_Its almost here_, she had thought, the crux of it, the single piece which put the entire picture to rights, and had reached out for the flask, wanting the crutch, almost annoyed when it conveyed only a few remaining drops. Not even a finger's worth.

"I remember she was crying, but without a sound, just tears rolling down her face. I still feel guilty about that. To this very day. She's never been able to reconcile gossip. Just completely incapable of ignoring it. It gets inside her, you see, and I can't help but think if I had come home sooner, or drove away faster, maybe, maybe...But she'd always disdained it, people talking about her, all of us, the injustice, the untold harm, like a secret that festers. It's the way she's made, I guess."

"Where did you take her?" _Picking, picking picking..._

"Where? Oh. Just around. For a bit. Nothing...The point is...I'm coming to it. We'd been drinking. Well, I'd been drinking, if I'm totally honest. Quite a lot, actually, and I mustered up the courage to ask her about Daniel. Mostly just to get her onto a topic that she might want to talk about, and off the meditations of our parents that were just crushing her. You know the kind, simple, innocuous, what was he like, what kind of things he liked to do, the easy volley kind of questions. She had been drinking too. I mean, she wasn't nose to nose with me, but she'd passed pissed by the time I thought to ask about him. We ended up in...Anyway...It was like a wave of sobriety smacked me in the face when she turned to look at me, like neither one of us had consumed a single drop before that moment."

"She waited until I was done asking, and then she just turned to me, she looked me dead in the eye and said..._Jesus_, she said it was her fault he'd died the way he did. In pain, agony really, delirious with fever, all her fault. Well, I made suitable noises about how ridiculous that was, it couldn't possibly be her fault, all slurred and hurried. Totally pointless, mind you. I mean, shit, I had just never imagined that the reason she didn't talk about him was because she had believed, all along, she was responsible for his death. Cancer. It was cancer. It was understood, right? She was barely eighteen, she had her entire life set before her, and this is what was rolling around that intricate mind of hers? I tried, I did. I just wanted her to feel...Loved, or maybe, forgiven?"

"What did you do, Peter."

To her ears it sounded more a statement than query, informed by apprehension and a better than average ability to read between the lines, to line up the words left unspoken, to know without being told she did not want an answer. Her entire body thrummed with anxiety, a throbbing best likened to catching your elbow against a hard surface at just the right spot to leave you overcome with nausea, the urge to vomit keen, but never fully acted upon by your body.

"Do? Nothing. I...I fumbled it, did the wrong thing, said the wrong things, made promises. I...broke us...in a way. She did attend Oxford when the time came, but we had grown rather distant from one another by then. I'd heard through mutual mates she was dating, and I checked out one guy she saw for a while. A writer he was...some sort. I'd heard she broke it off soon after. Never said why as I think on it. I went on into the services, and she moved on to GCHQ. Our parents, they reconciled...somehow, drew closer as the years passed. You'd never know there were bad patches to look at them now." A casual flip of his hand, dismissive, a physical _who knows. _

"But the distance between Ruth and me, its never really diminished. Ironic, that. I've always thought it was down to that one drunken moment of confession, the kind you can't take back, or forget. Something everybody just prays to forget ever happened. I hope, anyway, that it was that-" The remainder of his thoughts left unspoken, or perhaps simply inaudible against the tumult exploding within her mind, _enough, enough, enough. _

"That wasn't...isn't...her way. She forgives, in the multitudes, but she will never forget. She's carried that guilt in the same way she carried that single piece of luggage she returned with, nothing altered, added or discarded. Just sat there, next to her knobby little knees."

Bringing his hands to his face, he had covered it entirely from scrutiny, massaging it violently, scrubbing at the memories as one would a stain, seeking to remove, seeking to restore balance and innocence, the way things were versus the way things became, and are.

_Innocence_, she had thought. That was the description he was struggling to identify. The loss of some measure of innocence. Something _had_ happened, something ugly and subversive had spied them, assessed their vulnerability, and reached in to fondle the intricate surface of their relationship, altering it, tarnishing it so that they were eternally changed from themselves and each other, no longer recognizable.

It was then she knew he mourned her, the loss of her, the picture of who she was he kept safe in the memory box labeled _Our Ruth_ in his head, and that he felt it down to him. It was the place he went to in his mind's eye when his eyes were far away, gazing with furious concentration at the middle space unseen to others. As if to verify her silent musings, he drew to a close, dropping his hands, turning the key to restart the car, capturing her eyes with his, order restored, the blinds once again held firmly in place.

"I'll not spend my life with you apologizing for having any affection for her. I will not do it. Not now, not ever. Do you understand me?"

It was the voice of a stern taskmaster, like her father's, flowing from between the lips of a man she had fallen dangerously in love with. A man who was not hers to claim, unwilling to be hers, and hers alone. A man who was already claimed by another.

"Yes."

It was all she could bring herself to say.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_**November, 2005**_

She massaged the scared crescents of her right hand, naming each as her fingertips touched lightly about them, visualizing the faces and circumstances surrounding each burned into her memories, reliving, the rapid succession of fleeting moments, the slights and emotional turmoil best left to the past, but whose frequency to plague her presently had enhanced immeasurably since his death.

She had chosen a corner, darkness blanketing her, but for one shard of light from a street lamp stretching across the room, illuminating a small spot on the shelf in direct line of sight from where she sat, waiting. The picture, half hidden from view, was placed between a stack of hard-backed, thick books whose titles were of no interest to her, and a delicate porcelain figurine of a bird, a Lladro she thought, its surface gleaming despite the artificial, yellowing cast from without. A gift from Peter, she knew, though she had not been present when presented, nor told about the occasion of its purchase. A cat bearing a mottled collection of colors groomed itself methodically, lazily on the back of the love seat, undisturbed by her presence, stopping periodically to look at her, eyes a sharp and powerful green visible at a distance, supine body still as an opossum, and then resuming its natural grooming ritual as though dismissing her out of hand.

How like Ruth, she thought, to be a cat person, and the characteristics she shared with the species were not lost to her; A loner, self contained, indecipherable, the striking eyes hiding the mechanisms within, cold, dismissive, secretive, the tendency to play with prey before striking the fatal blow, once done, padding away silently to nap in the sunshine.

The deepest crescent, the one she caressed presently belonged to him, her love, her other half but for Ruth, and the caress became a picking, as it so often had, her nail digging deeply the folds surrounding familiar to her as she again regarded the picture casting a glow from across the room, a specter that taunted even now, the carcass of a single dried flower, a pressed funeral memento, leaning delicately against the glass encased in frame.

Captured together, candid, unposed, he gazing at her in full grin, she leaning towards him, head cast down slightly, her hair grazing the grin just forming, some secret shared, some comment each were reacting to, individual, and yet still joined in time the way photographs can capture moments otherwise unforeseen, unknown, telling a story without words or script but for your mind's eye coloring the background, the legacy.

They never did have dinner, the three of them, nor get together for drinks, their interactions conducted with propriety as required by family ritual, gatherings both infrequent and blessedly short lived.

Neither did she and Peter broach the subject of Ruth again after that last time, with the thunderous sky cracking and an empty flask discarded between them. She had been angry, seething in truth, that in her inherently feline custom, Ruth appeared to have discarded Peter to lay about the sun and groom herself, her loyalty to a loved sibling allowing only so much, abiding only until she was tired of the game, off in search of better, more amusing prey. When he was summarily dismissed from service duty altogether, health reasons were cited, but everyone understood the euphemism at play, his drinking had become too debilitating, too obvious, not a word from _her_ in support, or protest, distancing herself like a proper little spy, her traitorous nature on full display.

It was she who cradled him when he wept in frustration at his turn in fortune, and disrobed him when too pissed to do it himself, emasculated and infantile. She who collected him from the ever increasing numbers of pubs he began to fill his tedious hours with, regaling anyone who would listen about his position with Diana, that if he had been there she would be alive at that very moment, stepping between when the reasons behind his absence were volleyed, drunken fists and insults erupting with frequency the predictable result. It was she who secreted around back alleys and darkened roads in search of him when his numerous usual haunts failed to produce him. She had conducted herself in abominable fashion, her colleagues whispering concerns, warnings, her own career falling into jeopardy, her skills coming into considerable question.

All down to the grinning woman in the illuminated picture, the one whose beauty made you yearn to touch her, as he had yearned, whose face had revealed nothing as they had lowered him into the ground, not a tear or grimace, stone whilst she herself wailed and wept openly. _He carried his guilt over you, and not a single tear for his effort. He lost you both, one to death, and one to time, and neither had wept a single tear for his sacrifice, loyalty and honor._

She heard the shuffling approach, and smiled silently as she recognized the pause as Ruth noticed the fallen slip of paper, lain just outside the door and left, if she were honest, to strike fear, that frozen sliver creeping down your back, settling in one's bladder, overripe, demanding attention, and her smile crept upwards, ever wider in the murky darkness.

She took one last look at the photograph, as Ruth entered, her shallow breathing audible from the entryway, as she prepared herself for what she was to encounter within the thick and darkened depths of her own home, her sanctuary invaded, as she turned the corner and appeared silhouetted in the doorframe, her body a tiny, frightened and defenseless thing to her accustomed eyes.

_And so it begins, my love._


	10. Chapter 10: The Bird and The Butterfly

_"_**_Your faith in me brings me to tears,_**

**_Even after all these years._**

**_And it pains me so much to tell,_**

**_That you don't know me that well._**

**_And though my love is rare,_**

**_Though my love is true._**

**_I'm like a bird,_**

**_I'll only fly away._**

**_I don't know where my soul is,_**

**_I don't know where my home is."_**

_-Nelly Furtado, I'm Like a Bird_

_(It might help, as this chapter follows immediately from the last, that a re-read of Chapter Nine might be in order. Just a suggestion.)_

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Angela, 10 November, 2005. 8:30 pm:_

The home, from the instant she had entered, bore the scent of her, enveloping her in an unwelcome embrace, each inhale a physical assault, plying long ago buried and painful memories from the shadows to dance and prick, painful entertainment, torturous as she sat absently picking the frayed upholstery of an overused, second hand lounge chair. Her lungs and head swam with the scent of Ruth, though she had excused herself to prepare a pot of tea, and she smirked at this observance of custom, that deeply instinctual need to be gracious, even to one who was an intruder, uninvited and disturbing.

Her eyes fell upon the porcelain bird figurine again, and she thought how appropriate of Peter, to take, as he had always taken from her, even something as simple as a suggestion, and gift it to another as his own. The room presently illuminated with Ruth's return, the object became one of many such trinkets, previously hidden, though its significance to Ruth was highlighted by proximity to their framed photograph, whether an unconscious bit of interior design, or deliberate on Ruth's part she couldn't fathom. _ A bird with a broken wing_, she had said at the time, and he had neither agreed, nor denied it, but gathered the image to his heart, to set along side _her_, this delicate figurine symbolizing only a fraction of his heart's devotion and need.

The dried flower...Or, was it several now that she could better see in the light? Yes, a dandelion, the characteristic dome singularly visible in the darkened room earlier, it's golden, buttery hue now faded, hard and browning at the edges. A flower to wish upon, the underside of your chin glowing with sunlit dust, its seeds cast on the wind with a soft puff through your lips. _How very optimistic, _she thought. She could now see it joined in sentry by the darkened blue attached to a stem of Forget Me Nots. The tiny buds, four in total, pressed flat, brought to mind the small bouquet Ruth had held graveside, the vision of it shimmering like water as she pulled from it one stem, and then the tumbling cascade as the remainder fell end over end to land on top of his casket. _Even in death, you required his devotion, Ruth._

They could have found common ground in this, the symbolism and medicinal attributes of flowers. They could have found companionship in Botany, Horticulture, in the language of Nature and Science, coexisting, grown from the same multifaceted seed. They had spoken of a shared love for gardens, each having studied as children with their respective fathers, hers focusing on the theological, and Ruth's the medicinal. The symmetry did not escape her then, or now. Her father was a man of canon rules and theological belief, and Ruth's, one of science; that they would be in conflict seemed fated somehow, the mirrored images of Science versus The Divine.

Botany, the subject and consequence, became the cornerstone of every conversation their limited interactions encouraged. As she thinks on it presently, she rather regrets never exploring Ruth's mind further on such matters as the lethal aspects of botanical combinations for, without doubt, she could have enumerated in detail, plucking the information held within her intricate mind as easily as plucking out a weed defiling an English flowerbed. _That_ information would have proven quite useful on numerous recent occasions. No one ever would suspect the lonesome woman next door tending an overgrown garden of premeditated murder. They are simply not commonly regarded as homicidal, if considered at all.

Yes, they could have grown and nurtured together; Created, side by side, all manner of fecundity, beauty. They could have shared something more than him, the seed of their origin, and she reverently gives silent thanks that amongst the dried and browning mementos, there is not a stem of honeysuckle, that totem symbolizing a love that will never be forgotten, a first love, an old flame, for whether given or received, she would feel the betrayal keen in her heart even now.

She had entered previously several weeks past, installing the requested surveillance, an undetected spider weaving a fibrous web throughout the home, picking through the mementos, thumbing the pictures capturing moments in time, some she was aware of, numerous those that preceded her. She feels, rather than sees, the camera hidden in the room, rising and walking past as she begins to peruse the knickknacks placed about, the tiny windows into the mind of the woman presently occupied in the adjacent kitchen.

A preadolescent Ruth, smiling, the color of her eyes staggering even then, brandishing the brace of plaster covering her broken arm with pride, the other encased within the larger hand of her father's, the haphazard sprinkling of freckles decorating the bridge of her upturned nose, belying the intellect held within, the formidable opponent she was to become hidden within the deceptive and guileless attributes given to childhood, to innocence. How many agents had been saved or lost at the hands of this gifted man when this photograph was taken, she wonders, curious if he had been the one to set Ruth's arm, place the brace? Had he been delayed by those asked to make the greatest sacrifice, broken and bleeding upon an unsterilized table in the bowels of an abandoned flat, or had he rushed to her side, whispering words of comfort as he made to hurt her again to heal her?

She knew the story, had been told by Elizabeth during one of the gatherings Ruth thought to decline; The broken arm the result of a fall from a tree limb, crashing to the ground, both she and the severed tree limb, embellished by Peter, who, whilst in familial company, even in Ruth's suddenly customary and notable absences, could not contain his affection for her, betrayed with every word spoken, his enduring love, alighting his eyes. She, not for the first time in their shared history, sought the solace found in the lies one weaves for oneself, in resentment, in the ever present burn that hatred stokes.

It was the few, select photographs of Peter and Ruth that gave her pause presently, as they had when first come across at his. Fully illuminated, the streetlamp's yellowish hue having crept back outside, they provided a story, one of mutual affection turning, subversively gradual in degree, into hesitation, discomfort, their eyes betraying the truth.

She yearned to gather them all, line them up side by side, memorize the progression of destruction present in the dulling of their smiles, a photographic slideshow of forced companionship. Instead, she moved from one to the next, the screeching of a tea kettle from beyond the only sound accompanying her meditative, deliberate progression. It seemed apt, felt _right_, that she should hear nothing but clamorous screaming, and thus continued, unabated, the trail of smudged blood from worrying her crescents earlier the only visible evidence of her careful progression. Well, that, and the camera, and on the heels of this thought she paused, her hand held still above the next photograph in succession, making an internal note to shave a few minutes here and there before presenting the catalogue for use.

Her fingers moved across the glassy surfaces of each, caressing his frozen, smiling face, her thumb deliberately placed on top of Ruth's face, hiding her from view, as though this simple placement of digits would result in her sudden, untimely disappearance. It was easier, this way, to imagine the face held under her thumb as her own, and Peter's genuine smile, a gift offered, and treasured in her heart, hers alone.

She recognized details from a few occasions, family rituals caught in time for which she had been present, the past displayed in the present, the loss of him keen, the scent of him having faded in the year since his death. In the last, they were seated together, side by side, each smiling the obligatory smile inherent to time spent going through the revolutions of family rituals, that smile that never quite reaches their eyes, the ebulliency a fabrication erected as the minutes become tiresome, the family proper becomes that thing you desire to run from, not towards, for comfort. It was the last time they had gathered, she remembered, their discomfort at the other's presence jumping from the frame, as palpable presently as when it was taken, their smiles wooden and forced, and she wondered at why Ruth should chose to display this amongst her mementos, her talismans signifying her history, her life lived.

She had more than a passing acquaintance with smiles of this sort. He had worn it for the better part of three years, give or take, no matter in who's company, friend or foe. It was a smile she herself wore from the moment she heard the gunshot report, watched as the light left his eyes, the blood spilling from his self inflicted wound, staining its vivid passage, his life seeping into the carpet they had both sworn to replace, the reel of Diana accompanying his last moments, carrying him beyond her grasp.

Flowers then, too. Even as she held his lifeless body, cradled his blood soaked, half missing head, gathering the bits of bone and matter, holding them tightly in her grasp as though they could be replaced, reassembled somehow, she could hear her accepting flowers, the gracious thank yous, the crinkling of foil wrapping, _what have they done to you._ She had cried, wailed as a wounded animal, screamed and railed at the emptiness surrounding her, her knees sunk deep into the offending carpet, blood pooling to stain her clothing, pleading with no one there to wake her up, the nightmare of a life without him, the sheer horror of continuing alone fueling her rage and grief.

She had broken, then, for, surely, it had been then; The gun report ricocheting behind her eyes, joining the overture, the internal _crack_ she was certain was audible as she relinquished her senses, gave over to the soft caress, spiraling downwards as madness dragged her underneath, and held her close. Well and truly dropped her basket, as they say, and to her present shame, she remembers the two days she'd spent with him, still sat in the chair, rigor having come and passed, the foul liquids seeping from him in an ever widening circle beneath, the smell of decomposition ripe, not diminished in the least for having removed the carpet, set out for the dust man.

She'd imagined, distantly then, their neighbors calling the authorities to report strange goings on, what they would say, who would be the first; _Yes, you see there was a good deal of screaming, a gunshot, I think, and now there's a carpet that looks soaked in...Um...Well, I can't be sure, you understand, but it looks a good deal like dried blood. I wonder, could you send someone round? _She had actually heard them, the calls, the ringing telephones, the whispered accusations; She understood the impossibility of such an occurrence now, but _then,_ her basket's contents given over to senseless abandon, she'd engaged in lengthy conversations with them in the silence of her shuttered, fouled home, her sleep deprived mind conjuring them in the shadows of hollowed out, empty rooms, _pointing, pointing, pointing._

She had, shuddering as the memory takes shape, screamed when they came to remove him, struggled against the arms that enveloped her, dragging her from his side, the blanket she had covered him in discarded in favor of a venomous black morgue bag. The sound it made as they enclosed him within, that plasticized crinkling, the finality that lends itself effortlessly to the sound of a zipper as it travels its pedestrian path, unnatural, mechanical, the thunderous silence when ended, and she could feel her head cracking open with the mutinous sounds, spilling her seeds and juice, to join his.

_Sleeping_, she had screamed into their placid faces, _he's just sleeping; A dreamer, he likes his dreams, leave him alone, please, just...God, please don't cover his face, can't breathe, can't breathe, he can't breathe; He's told me so many times, please, please, please._

She turns from the photograph, listing slightly, retracing her steps back to the over worn chair, her knees weak, her body's desire to vomit at the base of her throat, burning and acidic, dropping into it, boneless, with a soft _pooft_ as the insults materialize behind her eyes, the involuntary picture show gaining speed. _There_, the clandestine alert to the authorities at Thames, some special branch plod hoping for favor at her expense; _Now_, her decommission, the eyes of those passing judgement frigid in both questions and judgements; _Ahhh, yes_, the involuntary commitment to TRING, the walls closing in on her, breathing whilst he could not, her hands raking her face and chest, screaming injustices and revenge, drawing blood, hers, theirs, her nails forever crusted with blood, seeing them now, as then, her crescents red, tender and moist.

She had refused to vacate, preferring to surround herself with his things, wandering the halls of his flat, his voice, imagined conversations with him echoing the walls. One week. Or, maybe two, was it? Her clothes soiled, unchanged, hair lank, the film on her teeth thick and uneven. Even now difficult to identify precisely, those moments of her past all merging in a kaleidoscopic picture show then, a single, agonizingly constant rush of faces and sounds.

And Ruth. _Mustn't forget Our Ruth._ Her face distinguishes itself within memory, crystalizing as it emerges, filling the space behind her eyes. Ruth, her expressionless face and guarded eyes, giving nothing away, indifferent, feigning superficial concern, present for the final act as directed, the muted and sedate walls of TRING breathing around her, _green, pale green_, pulling the strings, directing from the periphery, blithely ignorant to her pleas, immune to her pain, methodically dismantling her life, _erasing her_, deftly pulling the wings off a butterfly, watching as they fluttered to the ground, discarded, soiled, utterly useless. Her father had called her Butterfly, and in a curious nod towards symmetry, she had not been surprised to find Ruth's had called her Bird, _He called her Bird, or Birdie, after that fall; Because of it really; Funny, yeah, _he had added, wearing that smile she had grown to fear. Natural enemies we two, and found herself looking towards the other in the adjacent room, the sounds of her movements floating from without. Fated, she concluded, but only one destined to consume the other.

She had struck out at her, a violent and unpredictable maneuver, the ring on her hand catching and tearing, the trickle of blood livid against her pale, shocked face. _How had they failed to remove her jewelry,_ she still wonders absently? Ruth still bears the remnants of a scar on her face, just to the side of her right eye, a small imperfection, a lighter color than the whole, marring her tranquil face, insignificant when alined with the scar still festering deep within her at the loss of her love, her reason for being, her touchstone, but visible in photographs dated more recent she'd chosen to display, if you knew what you were looking for, as she did.

With a slight nod of her head, the twitch of a bird identifying prey, wiping at the blood, palpating the wound with her fingertips, they had injected her, cruelly forcing her to the ground, holding her there as she continued to claw and bite, the tranquilizer coursing rapidly in her already adrenaline laden state, her movements becoming slow, lethargic, tame, her mouth numb, slurring accusations, _You killed him, do you understand? You fucking killed him. _ The horror marking her face, the impassive facade cracking, for an instant, the poison pill delivered deep into her subconscious, her only solace, her single triumphant moment against an enemy whose weapon was history, and she the acknowledged usurper, her velvety wings soiled and useless.

Her lips twitch, a counterfeit smile, one born of cruelty and recollection, the accusation delivered specifically to target the guilt already present and swimming within her, Peter's words echoing in her head,_ her father's death, her fault, her fault_, that unanticipated confessional between lovers twisted maliciously into a weapon, fortuitous in her possession, a betrayal of her, by him, posthumously. There is no enemy more powerful than the one you create yourself, and no information more damaging than that which you divulge, in confidence, to another.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Ruth, 10 November, 2005. 9:45 pm:_

She's hot, her body covered in a thin layer of sweat, clammy, reaching from the surface of her skin to catch the air around her, causing her to shiver, as if fighting fever, hunched and scrubbing. Leaning back against the wall, she holds the scarf between her hands, kneeling, examining the details, the faded patterns, floral, now soiled with her efforts, lost to the intruder whose uninvited presence met her return earlier.

She bends to her task again, scrubbing the base of the toilet, the mosaic tiles surrounding, the scarf's previously vivid florals, faded still, bright splotches of whitened bleach erasing details as she would erase the memories and details marking her past before this very moment. The MD viewer taunts her from the corner. Resting as it did it gave the impression, viewer's eye facing her as she studiously scrubbed, of watching her, recording every action, every thought; Worse still, knowing every betrayal, both actual and fantasy.

"Insanity."

The word echoes the closely tiled room, reverberating back and forth, despite the evidence contained within the eye that watches her, that knows where her secrets hide, that place she denies where she will find no comfort, the door creaking open to prevent sleep. _No, stop. _The word continues to float, her subconscious having awoken to clasp it, and she thinks it quite possible that she could lose her mind, could break clean from the Here and Now, the memories of There and Then creeping effortlessly from behind her mind's locked doors, their shadows growing long, engulfing the light of her present everyday.

_You killed him, do you understand?_ Grabbing her toothbrush, she meditates on the sound the brush makes as it flays between the tiles, attacking stains that predate her ownership, perhaps even her birth, the words a double sided blade struck deep into the tender meat of her rapidly beating heart. _Not him._ _No, shut up. I'll not sit and stuff myself full of that responsibility; Not then and not now._ Her teeth graze her bottom lip, trapping it between, biting down hard, she remembers and in the memory her resentment towards Angela blooms as a malignant unfolding within her, her chest full, the roughened grout between tiles nicking her, minuscule pinpricks of blood filling the space in the absence of skin.

She hears him, feels him then, as though her unwanted thoughts of him were a siren call he could not ignore; Behind her, his eyes, hot in the places he gazes, breath tinged with whiskey, warm against her neck, stepping from her nightmares and into the room with her, bright and stinking of disinfectant, the eye watching from the corner, bending close to breathe into her ear, _But you are so beautiful, our Ruth. _

Her body physically jolts, the bright tile surrounding her blinding, lunging for the newly spotless basin, retching uncontrollably, her hands braced against the tank, cleaning fluid stinging her eyes, her knees bruising against the floor's hard, unyielding surface.

Sobbing, now. She's wracked with sobs, drawn from the depths of her, body convulsing with the voracity of exertion, her breath wafting back into her face, tasting of bile and decay, but cool, pleasant, inexplicably pleasant, and she concentrates, squeezing her raw eyes shut, concentrating as the cool, foul air brushes her face and calms her. Forcing him back into the shadows, an unwelcome intruder to her waking hours this specter that haunts her nights.

_Beautiful, so beautiful. _A hand, gently caressing her cheek, warm against the frigid winds, the grey and mournful skies of Blackpool. Her breathing rapid, his touch wanted, unseemly, his eyes far away, swimming with drink, _Not your fault, Ruth. Cancer, it was cancer, love. _ Her brain screaming_ you don't know, you couldn't know, _merging instinctual alarms, _don't touch me, you shouldn't be touching me, please don't do this; Please don't stop. _

And now, head lain against the cool tank, she admits his touch had felt good, his words had stirred her, wanting to respond, wanting to feel, to be forgiven, to breathe with him, his lips murmuring softly against hers, the taste of him indistinguishable from her own, _I love you, I've loved you from the first, Ruth. My Ruth. _His hand tickling her knee, exposed, touched as by flame her mind floating, her thoughts vague but for the touch of his fingers, _These knees, these knobby, delicious knees._ His lips forming the words, breathing them against her neck, her pulse, her hands in his hair, holding him against her, moving to sit astride him, face him, her body responding fluidly, his eyes hooded, _Wrong, this is wrong. Stop. Stop, stop now; Kiss me, kiss me; Know me._

His hands at her waist, lifting her, positioning her as she straddles him, resting around her bum, squeezing her, their clothing suffocating, moving her back and forth, softly, softly, her mind going blank, nothing but feeling, vivid, edging closer, closer. Feeling him harden beneath her, his sighs of pleasure merging with hers, their breathing syncopating, the trail his tongue takes causing her to shiver, grind against him as he thrusts upwards, the ache, lost in the exquisite ache...

_Leave with me_, whispered quietly, tongue running the length of her bottom lip, tasting her, his words as sweet as his whiskyed breath. Three words. Three simple words, but it had been enough to cut through her subconscious. His eyes, confused, hurt as she lifted herself from him, moved across the shabby, shadowed room, establishing the distance that would mark them from that moment into their future, _No, Peter. No._

_I love you, Ruth. _

_No, Peter._

_Always have done, Bird. Always will._

Their return home had been a solemn affair, the invisible, unspoken threshold having been crossed hanging in the air between them, following them as an ever devoted shadow thereafter. She absently meditated as the ache evolved from a pleasing, urgent throbbing, to something likened to despair, melancholic, the silence between them extending, blindly, heartbreakingly infinite. _Did he touch you? Did he? Tell me, Ruth! _Her mother's face, accusing her without words, _It wasn't like that, mum..._

She had never been able to erase the look of horror, the grimace of disgust which worked its way to the surface, her mother's shuddered _Oh, sweet Jesus, _and the sting as she had slapped her flat across the face, _What have you done? Answer me, _echoing the closely tiled room, demanding answers never offered, her memories betraying her past, her truth.

She gathers herself slowly, crawling hands and knees to the wash basin, grasping the edges, pulling herself upright, the cold water against her face bracing, observing her reflection and finding herself momentarily surprised not to find evidence of a slap delivered with force years ago imprinted now against her pale cheek. Her stomach sour, still threatening its remaining contents, she moves to draw a bath, the steaming water scalding, the fog of its heat obscuring her mirrored image, and she watched as her reflection mercifully fades into oblivion before submerging herself into the bath seeking the same merciful grace.

Her mother had been a stranger to her, and in the moments proceeding her choice to leave home, to run, in truth, from the eyes that condemned her even as they sought to love, she'd understood her mother's need for details, the distance of intellectual contemplation, that her desire to interpret as rape, molestation was obscenely preferable to the suggestion that it, she and Peter, were acting on wholly predictable inclinations, twisting the natural into its unnatural opposite, the preferred course.

It wasn't, she freely admits, that they had acted on impulse, that they had always known it would come to that, eventually. It couldn't even be regarded as incestuous, illegal, unnatural in the definitive sense. No, it hadn't been wrong or unnatural, but something beautiful and rare, and she had allowed herself to be told otherwise, made to believe otherwise. She was stained, soiled, her ability to love and her need to be loved betraying her, leaving her marked ever after.

Contorting herself to submerge beneath, her ears comforted by the water's diffusing properties, womblike, _He's your brother, _a misapprehension so vile, and yet the conclusion consistently drawn by observers, lovers, that it became futile to argue the truth, and neither of them had really bothered over time. It was the idea that they should leave together that had drawn her short, not the roughened hand playing across her skin, the fingers parting her folds, and the voice that whispered _so sweet, my Ruth. _It was the eyes of others, reflecting the eyes of her mother's, accusing, her subconscious predicting where she had yet to be questioned. And, if they had not lived together, coexisted as a consequence of their parents union, what then, she wondered now, as she had often wondered in unguarded moments, waking from nightmares, her subconscious claiming the playground as she yearned for quiet and sleep. Would it still have required vile suggestions, would the circumstances have been subversive by necessity, unnatural by default?

_Unrelated by blood. _Resurfacing_, _she says the words aloud, feels them form and take shape in her mind, worrying her bottom lip as she hears herself speak, her breathing audible in the close, compact room.

They had loved one another, perhaps he more than she, but there had been love, genuine and pure. Rubbing her eyes, the pressure of her fingertips producing blooms of blackened spots, her desire to sob, deep and throbbing at her throat, choking, drowning. She had acted on impulse then, in a shabby B&amp;B on the outskirts of Blackpool, and her guilt, her sin having been found out and assigned her, propelled her further towards impulse, engaging risk as though a harmless toy to be played with, well suited on her own.

Smirking ironically, her eyes filling with unshed tears too long in the making, she wonders what those she associates with now would think to have known her then, and she allows the barest hint of pride to color her cheeks in her achievement, her successful execution of legend. That is what she was then, a legend. It had come to her shortly after joining the grid, the description of how she felt inside in the places that matter, equally hollow, cardboard where there should be flesh, fantasy where there should reside history. There were many boys, some men, but few who were allowed behind the barriers she had erected, and she thinks now it curious that she would behave in a manner clinically conducive to molestation, sexual assault, trespassing frequently beyond the line of advisable conduct.

In her mind, as the years passed, it seemed easier to assign molestation, rape, though the incongruity, the outright lie of it, did little to curb either her self loathing or her need to feel clean. She came to believe it as fact, the circumstances drawn and detailed, and Peter left to bear the weight of it. The tears fall now, as the shame takes shape, spreads its wings within her, the vision of his face, stoic, bearing the weight of unfounded accusations, for her, for love of her.

She believes it possible, has done for some time now, that perhaps she was molested in a manner, the visage of her mother's face floating to replace his behind her closed eyes, the rightful abuser, the one who first planted the seed that grew to become his despair, and her shame. She believes herself marked now, and then, if she were honest, publicly identified as dirty, and the resentment for feeling this way, even now, is a crushing weight to bare, the consequence of acting according to what her body instinctually understood as true. Surely there are various levels of molestation, just as there are various levels of abuse; Emotional, physical, the scars left to fester and stain, visible as a map upon the skin, hinted at by degree in action and affect, otherwise.

She had begun to adopt layers of clothing, voluminous, hiding her body underneath, shed herself of promiscuity, dating selectively, if at all. She ceased all measure of beautification, shunned make up, raking her long hair back from her unadorned face in an unassuming plait, the idea that she was beautiful in anyway becoming something evil and ugly, something to fear, something to avoid as one would seek to avoid contamination. Being touched, her body and soul responding quickly, naturally, as if suffocating, became dirty, and she began to slide within herself, isolation her solution, contamination in companionship her greatest fear. She sees herself in her mind's eye, as she was once; _Audacious_, he had said, _Beautiful._

Shoulders shaking, weeping silently, _He was your brother, why didn't you help him, Ruth. _The moan escapes her, filling the room, the eye in the corner watching, watching. _The mad bitch_, demanding answers, as though they were owed to her, sat there in _her_ room, in _her_ home, her very presence neither invited nor desired, an intrusion thought to be friendly. Fucking mad bitch, she is.

But she hadn't helped him, had she? Not then. Not when he really needed it, when he was too deep down the rabbit hole for rescue of any sort. Covering her face with her hands, listening as the bathwater rolls from her upraised forearms, dropping onto the surface of her bath, punctuating the refrain, _didn't help him, didn't help him, why didn't you help him?_

Rising, the flush of water dropping from her, the air cool, chilling as she steps to the mat, gingerly, her muscles loose, weak, the scent of her perfume filling her nose as she wraps herself in her robe, the sound of the robe's tie tight in the silence, the water draining away a soothing gurgle. A drink. I want a drink, four fingers, and it is then she remembers the night when met by an intruder wearing Gary's aged and unfamiliar, swollen face, and Harry, then Harry; They'd made fast work of her limited spirits, the two of them, only recently. Ironic, that. Neither had the slightest clue the bottle they had polished off between them had originated with Peter; His favorite brand, she had grown accustomed to maintaining a ready supply as the years passed, and he began to pop round unexpectedly, at times drunk, others sober as a judge, begging sanctuary, _I can't breathe, Ruth. She's suffocating me, she's killing me, Bird. _That bottle had been the last, and she's not surprised to feel a bit of guilt creep up her spine, as though her failure to maintain constant supplies of such on hand was tantamount to forgetting him, of failing to remember the anniversary of his life and death in equal portion, of dismissing him altogether.

She forces herself from thoughts of betrayal as she descends the staircase, MD viewer liberated from its watch in hand, to rummage for something alcoholic, her first love's final bottle consumed, literally, by her subsequent love, and the man she was terrified she had already begun to love. The surreal nature of it all made her dizzy, leaning against the wall she drew deeply, holding her lungs full until spots began to dance before her, slowly exhaling, once, twice, the forced calm numbing her ears, her tongue thick with want of drink, the path he'd walked frequently, and she, infrequent.

_Harry. _Her desire to call him, hear his voice cascade across the line, is almost primal, the drive to speak to him, his eyes forgiving, his words soft and soothing in her ear. Just the smell of him, that scent she responds to without thinking, unconscious, and she wants nothing more in this moment than to fill herself with him, escape into him, the safety and warmth that had become so unexpectedly familiar and necessary to her.

_Stop. Is there no lesson that you will ever heed, daft cow? _She clasps the viewer to her chest, opening cupboards, feeling behind stacks of plates and dishes, her fingertips palpating the murky corners for treasure, and,_ Ahhhh, what's this then, bourbon, is it_, asking aloud, her eyes on the ceiling, far away, her mouth dropping open slightly, tongue worrying a molar as she attempts to recollect the ways and means of its presence on her shelf, irrationally awaiting the room to answer.

_Doesn't matter, _her words slicing the silence, setting aside the viewer, its eye still focused on her. The clink of a glass as she sets it down, the rip and tear of the bottle's seal, the _glug, glug glug_ as she over pours her portion, the tinkle the ice makes as it settles within the liquid folds of piece of mind offered should she consume enough. Not quite gulping, but enough to result in a trickle escaping, her tongue licking at the corner of her mouth, wiping her chin, taking another mouthful deep and full.

It burns, a fire landing in her stomach, warmth emanating out, her already limp limbs loosening further, sliding to the floor, legs outstretched before her, her robe falling away to expose a length of bare thigh, knee, _delicious knee, _the glass at her lips, eyes closed as she sips.

It had gone horribly wrong, and she can see the room before her now, Gary on one side, Peter near the door. Angry, they were both so angry; The flat was small, too small to contain the potent animosity, the barely concealed eruption only starting between the two. She had been sat, eyes closed, shaking her head as though doing so would alter the scene, adjust it in a way more palatable, manageable as a snow globe she treasured from her father, her breathing shallow, loud, the urge to flee acute.

It was what broke them, she thinks as she pours another measure, her mind becoming slightly, pleasantly numb, needing more, her memories refusing to remained stored, flitting about her in the harsh light of her kitchen, her eyes catching the clock and raising her glass to toast him on the anniversary of his death.

_Cheers, love. I had thought to miss you, but..._They had come to blows, Peter and Gary, things had been said, hurtful things, accusations designed to destroy, things which couldn't be taken back, fueled by drink, their tongues loose and cutting.

She hears his voice, _Stay away from her, _whispering, the demand to repeat it issued from Gary forming to join it, the alcohol making her hazy now. She had been struck, first, by the propriety in his tone, then the look marring his face. It was the first time she'd thought to be afraid of him, the knot in her stomach clenching as the fear settled along her spine, the urge to flee manifesting urgent, a throbbing along either side of her head, _shut up, shut up, shut up._

He had become something unfamiliar to her, in those moments then, dangerous in the evolution from known to unqualified. She had been afraid of him, for him, both. He'd been jealous, had always been jealous, she admits, determining the paltry attempts at resolving her shame, moving beyond her invisible mark, ill advised on her part, circumstances to lay claim on his. They fell out then, her doing, her choice. Never the same, but for the stain, the mark she bore, would always bare as if her life could be reduced, in theme and content, to a Hawthorne novel, whether she Pearl or Hester she could not decide; Innocent as a babe, though marked with sin, or deliberate in trespass and abomination, her beauty and instincts the very embodiment of sin?

She had mourned him, the loss of him, the first, for a time, though she'd been unable to quantify what it was that required she break with the life she knew, with Gary, his face confused and heartbroken, accepting what he was allowed little control over. Had she loved him? Inhaling deeply, drawing the last of the contents from the glass, the answer forming on her lips, a silent _no_ spoken to herself in judgement. Gary had been, if she were honest, easily discarded. The fear diminished but did not entirely abate, she had established the ritual of interactions with Peter thereafter to fall within the predictable realm of family gatherings. He went on, she went on, and so it was.

She remembers her first introduction to Angela, Christmas holiday, her sharp eyes, hard, scrutinizing her, walking along her skin. Looking towards the MD viewer, mocking her, laughing as she had dared to venture towards another, wanting to be connected after so long adrift, finding him nothing like what she had been warned off. _Harry_. The urge to call him immediately, regardless the hour, tugs at her, the amount of alcohol consumed in short order a willing, encouraging accomplice. Her rational mind tells her she mustn't, knows that were she to do so, there would be questions demanding answers, there would be little way to avoid telling him of Angela's clandestine visit, her purpose, and the details of what had been divulged, illegally. Another intruder, if he found out, would be the end of her home, her autonomy hard fought and won so long ago. The alternative, _I'm so sorry about the hour, Harry. I just needed to hear you breathing, a nightmare, I just need..._

_No. _Unfolding herself from the floor, unsteady as the blood rushes to her head, foggy with exhaustion and drink, she sets the empty glass aside, grabbing the viewer in one alcohol induced movement, graceful and languid, moving into her front room, the couch proving infinitely more inviting than the hard kitchen floor.

Its odd, she thinks, how your body and mind can become attuned to a solitary life, her eyes taking in the room around her, resting, as they often did, on the last photograph of them, the strangers they had become, uncomfortable and distant. Before you become really aware of it, your consciousness has categorized everyday sounds into the innocuous din of existence; the third stair which creaks on its left side closest the wall, the downstairs toilet which runs, periodically, but only in the evening, the soft plunk of mail dropping to the carpeted floor beneath the slot. At times, the silence is so absolute that she can hear Fidget grooming himself, his long periods of lapping at himself audible enough for her to count, _one, two, three, and again. _

For most of her life she had been comforted by the predictability of her life's silence. The deliberate lack of dramatics, flatmates underfoot, the _who used the last of the cream_ manner of discord inherent to companionships of any kind. Despite the loneliness that marked her self imposed solitude, she had been frequently reminded of her good fortune when observing Danny and Zoe stalking around one another, one having annoyed the other, grateful as Zoe detailed the inappropriate advances of previous flatmates. Or Jo, so new to the grid, straining to keep one foot in the mundane reality that represented her life before, and coming to the painful realization she would have to surrender it, move on, preferably into a MI5 flat, and if Zaf had his way, _his_ MI5 flat, forming a new Zoe and Danny for a new measure of grid.

Initially, it had been a problem that she had her own home. Not a flat set against others much the same in detail and floor plan, but a home, with many rooms throughout, containing an eclectic collection of furnishing, and a stained glass front door which never failed to make her smile, the reason she bought it, if she's honest, the collection of colors, when lit up in the early morning, calming in its simple beauty.

She loved her home in the way people can find themselves charmed beyond reason of inanimate things, that twist that happens within when something becomes irrevocably tied together with reminiscence and memories too sweet to part from. What she understood as that falling away from rationality, and falling willingly into love. She had, quite unexpectedly, formed a relationship of sorts with this pile of bricks, had taken it to her heart, treating it as one would a companion, that interaction which encourages revelations, made her feel safe when emerging from the shadows that marked her silence and solitude. It was, she chuckles depreciatingly, a paltry substitute for a lover, a partner, but she had denied herself that particular luxury for so long now, she hardly knew how to find the path back, couldn't imagine herself worthy of another life, despite the weight, despite the desire still stirring within her. _Marked, you are._

She had balked immediately when talk had centered on which MI5 flat she would occupy shortly after she arrived at Thames. Yes, she had been listening, had heard every argument in support offered by Tom, then Malcolm, and then finally, quietly, Harry. She remembers them now, as though yesterday; _Its the preferred course, Ruth. Its how things are done here, _hearing Tom's voice clear as if he were in the room with her, awaiting tea. _Ruth, I can't guarantee your security there, if the distance weren't bad enough...Did you know better than half the locks on your windows are broken,_ and she was hard pressed to maintain an impassive look, clamping down the smile that was just behind the facade, while she observed Malcolm, his ruffled feathers attributed to either her casual disregard of functioning locks, or her indifference to arguments offered, she still was not able to pinpoint.

_You'll be alone. You'll not want to be alone...There will be times, Ruth. Trust me. _Harry, his eyes soft, almost pleading, the last to offer argument in the face of her refusals. He had been sat on the edge of her desk, and for a man who was both feared and admired, a man she had been well warned of, she found herself nevertheless staring into his eyes as he spoke, unable to look away, yet curiously unafraid. She sees it clearly in her head, his lips becoming a thin line as she dared to negotiate the ways and means of her living arrangements.

_I'll have the locks replaced._

_You'll have the windows replaced, and the bolts front and back._

_I've a cat door on the back._

_Replace the door._

_Harry..._

_You'll replace the door, Ruth._

_Fine._

_And, Malcolm will install an alarm with motion sensors-_

_Which will be set off by the cat-_

_Which will be set to consider the cat, heights and such-_

_You don't know my cat-_

_Annoying me just the same, your cat._

They had sat staring at one another, neither willing to give ground, and as she lays herself fully across the cushions, the increase in her pulse syncopates itself with her pulse then, his eyes, even then, difficult to turn from, twinkling, _yes, that was it_. She can't remember a time when she hadn't noticed, when she hadn't hoped they did so singularly for her.

_I can order you into a flat, Ruth. If you force me, but I'm hoping it won't come to that. _

_Yes, it tends to leave a bad impression._

_Yes, _smiling slightly, the surprise that she had thought to argue at all, that something so banal to him could be so very invasive to her, coloring his cheeks, and she knew, in that moment of acquiescence he was a man not accustomed to being denied his will, a man sat at the edge of her desk negotiating terms where he'd thought none were necessary, whose countenance suggested that despite himself, he found it curiously enjoyable.

_If I even see a cord, or camera Harry-_

_No cameras, Ruth, lets not get too Orwellian just yet-_

_I'm serious..._

_As am I. New security or new flat. Choose. Now, if you would, as I've a number of other things requiring my attention beyond your living arrangements at the moment._

Moments later, Malcolm had appeared with assurances she wouldn't notice a thing, just the barest system he was willing to risk, just a toe into the waters of necessity. Truth told, she didn't notice all that much, the beeping when entering or exiting notwithstanding.

_What's its name_, he had asked later, as she had broached the threshold of his office to bid him good night. _Your cat,_ he'd offered softly, head turning to look at her from the stacks that littered his usually organized desktop. She had told him, hesitated within the doorframe, sensing there was more, curiously hoping, unsure if she was misreading, drowning in those eyes.

_I understand your wanting to stay where you are. Malcolm told me it was quite lovely, your home. I understand, Ruth. But, in our line of work...there are steps that...we have to be more careful. I'm...I'm just reassured that you are better protected...now...than you were before. You and Fidget, that is._

She had remained there, as he spoke, listening to what was not spoken, the pauses between words filled in her mind of their own accord, and she found she'd had some difficulty reconciling that this man, speaking softly, sympathetically, was the same man who was ruthless in decisions, callous in blatant disregard when achieving his goals, the goals required by his position, the caricature provided to her by her numerous colleagues when she had thought to entertain them and listen.

She smiles, her fingers moving over the viewer resting on her stomach, and wonders, not for the first time, if he regards that moment as the first of many such to follow, treasured in her heart, those times where they reached for one another, connecting, and she could be who she really was without facade, without masks, that he had become that place, much like her home, where she could step from the shadows and bask in the sun, unafraid. He was, she thinks, much like her stained glass, his colors kaleidoscopic and changing, calming her, and in her lazy thoughts, she heard herself speak, _someone who should be mine._

_My father, he left me enough to attend Uni, enough to get started. I loved it the moment I saw it. I think he would have as well. I don't intend to be difficult, Harry, really. I just...I just can't..._

_Sacrifice it. Yes, as I said, I do understand, Ruth_. The look on his face was almost heartbreakingly tender, vulnerable in a way she would not have guessed him capable were she only to believe what she had been told about him. The silence continued, drawn effortlessly between them as they regarded one another, eyes holding the others, the darkened grid a backdrop of sorts to their conspiracy of two.

_I'll make you a promise, just between us, yes? As long as your living arrangements are not compromised, I'll leave off. But, understand, the moment, the very instant that happens, you'll need to find alternative arrangements. Do we have a deal?_

_We have a deal, yes. _She had relaxed in the moment she'd said it, sagging against the doorframe, her subsequent deep breath in, exhaled quickly, as one does when a difficult moment has been inexplicably avoided, or resolved. Yes, it was that, but also, more, felt in her bones, the pledge between them the first of many, the catalyst, the seed.

Idly, turning the viewer over in her hands, she realizes that he hadn't required her to leave after Gary. Odd that she had not thought it before now, before a new intruder, treading on the heals of another, quietly picking her way through this very room earlier, had been discovered. Ironic, too, that her would be burglars were people she knew, had known, wanted to forget altogether, and yet they continue to pop up unsolicited within the walls of her MI5 secured home. Yet, still, he had not cashed in his marker, forced her to move, made her hold up her end of the bargain struck years before in the scarlet suffused quiet of his office.

Her mind, pleasantly lethargic, began to hum with life, lining up the reasons, the characteristic puzzling out inherent within her, attempting to pinpoint his motives, his intentions. Perhaps he knew that she infrequently set her alarm, and therefore it wasn't a malfunction of system at work, rather a malfunction of stubborn, careless operator? She could hardly argue the truth of that. Maybe he had bestowed her a pass, because she knew Gary, because there was a history there? Or, perhaps because it was through Gary that he'd acquired the manuscript, and punishing her for something which allowed him a detailed document of festering ills within the services, past and present, wouldn't be, what, just? Maybe he had simply forgotten their deal? But, no, she inwardly chastised, Harry, Grid Harry, forgets nothing, his mind an encyclopedic vault of things no one would desire to know.

Maybe, after seeing it himself, sitting together, preparing a slapdash meal, comfortable within each others company, lazy and opened with drink, the many subsequent deals and agreements between them dating from then and now, maybe he cared too much to hurt her, as requiring her to sacrifice this ridiculous building would cut her deeply. He knew that, hadn't she confessed to as much? The ways and hows paled now, she knew. This would be the straw, if anyone found out, if _he_ found out. However much history she and Angela had, it was another situation compromised, another step closer to being forced to shut the lovely stained glass door behind her permanently, never mind setting the alarm.

Bringing the viewer's eye to her's, she contemplates the contents again, slowly, painstakingly ingesting every word, every name, her heart cracking, as it had earlier, when finding his, as though she had forgotten its presence within, as though she had the power to erase its existence. Hadn't she, then? Sitting up, swinging her legs around, miscalculating and cracking her shin against the table,_ I could very well, couldn't I?_

She sees herself doing it. A simple thing, who would know? Drop the incriminating evidence into the blender, flush it down the toilet, grind it in the garbage disposal, slice it into minuscule pieces and bury it in the back garden, the solutions forming one after the other, her ability to rationalize burning at full steam._ My word against hers, _she says aloud, standing, her grazed shin throbbing its way to proper bruise. Yes, my word against hers; Some crackpot, batshit, decommissioned ex-agent with a history of erratic behavior and an involuntary stay at TRING versus the denials of a counter-terrorism analyst whose innocuous enough to be referred to, though they'd be surprised to find she knew, the mouse with a conscience.

She could, couldn't she?

Then, why hadn't she? The thought brings her from rounding the corner of her abandoned couch to a full stop. _Then why hadn't she? _The incriminating microfilm now held tightly in her hand, she brings her fingers to her lips, the nail of her index finger caught between her teeth, _But I know the spook inside you is saying what if. What if, Ruth? _

Sagging, dropping against the arm of her couch, risking a quick glance over her shoulder to remind herself Angela was not still sat there, Cheshire grin decorating her face; _No, gone hours ago, just the voice remains to taunt in your head._

Had she been that easily transparent? Could Angela have known her that well? She had, hadn't she? Tightening her robe tie, the feeling of being invaded somehow, almost an assault, her eyes closing tightly to push the truth of it down deep, secret it into the depths, not now, not now, her sense of self preservation straining to compose an alternative fiction to sell herself.

The effort, well intended, was futile at best, because she knew she had missed her chance, in the minutes after Angela left, why hadn't she thought to destroy it then? Instead, she had spied her scarf, left behind, and acting without reason, on childish impulse, had co-opted it for use on her toilet. Satisfying, yes, but the window to do otherwise had slowly closed as she mounted the stairs, and destroyed the scarf, _a scarf_, while the evidence that would destroy the careers of so many sat, unadulterated, in the corner bearing witness.

She wants to weep, deep wracking sobs, that she could be identified and categorized so easily, for her failure to act when she could because now, _now_, as a stifled sob breaks free of her, she can't destroy it, its in her head now, and she's in her head to keep it company, and she can't plead ignorance of what she now knows, remain blind to what she had read with her own eyes; Can't avoid, however much she may desire, questioning if she even knows the man she had thought to have known, if she were capable of loving him despite the monster inside because she had read it, it was his name, his name, _Harry...Oh, yes_, Cheshire smile gleaming, and God help her, he could have because she can't categorically deny he couldn't, so familiar to her and yet a stranger, believing him now, fully capable, the thought leaving her wretched and tightly wound.

_File number 954396G130497. _She repeats the sequence aloud, then again, locking it in her mind, knowing that she would need to be careful, leave no trail, understanding the considerable task set before her, the jeopardy she had placed herself in the moment she thought to first place her eye to viewer, the window she had allowed to close, unconsciously determining her path forward.

_You brother killed himself because he couldn't prove it. You can, and you want to, I know you do._

_Stop it. Stop it. _Said aloud now, as she had insisted then, turning to look at the chair, her mind embracing the truth of her words, grasping at the suggestion as one gulps for air. The voice in her head, the dialogue starting, painful realizations, knowing she would investigate, distilling the steps, the course of action even now, not for Peter, not him, for Harry, yet a betrayal of them both, and the realization brings her to her knees, bruised and tender, tremors of pain thrumming through her as they reach the carpeted floor.

Peter. She hadn't helped him before, and she's not motivated to help him now if she's being honest, even posthumously, murdered for knowing too much. She's already reconciled she'll fail him again, her choice made, for Harry, to clear Harry, her traitorous heart yearning to gage the man who, quite likely, had a hand in Peter's death, the loose end that demanded to be tied. Because this investigation, _her _investigation quite apart from Angela's intentions, would be to clear him, would it not? Wouldn't that be the thought that kept her going, trolling the stacks, dissecting the intelligence hidden, searching for the truth, hoping that he was innocent, hoping he was not that stranger looming in the shadows, his face familiar, his soul blackened with acts unknown, the legion yet to be revealed?

Kneeling on the floor, she had betrayed him already, in the early hours of Peter's mournful anniversary, she'd believed him capable, and in that belief set herself to wash him clean, selfishly, greedily, her desire to believe and her thirst to know warring inside her, the irony of the day an obscene gut punch, her body hunched over, arms around herself.

She'd allowed herself to stretch fully along the floor, sleep taking her quickly, her exhausted limbs mirroring her mental state. She had awoken, her head pounding, a cartoonish expansion of surface, inflating and deflating with her pulse, the soft pawing at her hip an indication that Fidget required feeding drawing her into consciousness, his welcome purr at her throat, vibrating methodically, her admitted alarm of choice.

Her muscles stiff, joints aching, she made her slow progress into the kitchen, setting the kettle, bending to reward Fidget his customary kibble, her desire to believe the previous night was but a nightmare, shattered as she unclasped her hand, seeing the microfilm held within, sighing deeply in frustration, and reconciliation, knowing what she would do, had to do, her clinical reason detailing the path, parting the way.

And her heart, as she stood in the deafening silence of her soiled, tarnished home, cleaved in two, for two, their faces in the distance, beyond her reach, as the water folded above her, and took her down.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Angela, 11 November, 2005. 6:45 am:_

"He's in love with her." Not a question, rather a statement of fact already established, not wanting in evidence or needing additional proof. She did not miss the tone as it traveled the path of connection, that pitch that suggested both wonder and acceptance in equal measure. Given the woman, she was not surprised to find her resentful, even a bit jealous at finding what she had once enjoyed as hers had become another's possession.

"The surveillance strongly suggests as much, though, as of last night, there's no evidence of anything beyond infatuation." She did not add her belief that Ruth would act as predicted, delving the intelligence to clear him, judging it unnecessary, redundant, a fact already anticipated and prepared for by those pulling the strings, both known and unknown to her.

"And you are prepared...You understand, there are others who expect-"

"I understand what they expect. I've been prepared for over a year." The details were mundane to her, dismissible, her portion of the operation nearing completion.

They didn't understand, couldn't, for how could they possibly know the workings of her mind? The years she has spent anticipating this designed end have been tedious to her, trying her patience, another annoying bit of minutia between them, keeping them apart. From the moment she had secured her release from TRING, stepped from the front entrance and felt the breeze on her face, hadn't she known the denouement of her life's worth was close, the details and opportunity not yet manifested, yet known, in her bones, awaiting her while the smell of floral landscapes filled her senses, the blooming butterfly iris to her left, a talisman, a memory, a harbinger knocking softly to be let in.

"We're to meet at eight, sharp. They'll be no turning back, once done." A last escape clause, was it? Or, possibly she was misinterpreting that slight catch in her voice offering a back door? Smiling, even after all these years of duty, of sacrifice, they still had no understanding of her; Failed spectacularly to, despite all the ops, all the dangers and narrow escapes littering her history, failed to see beyond the legend they themselves had constructed for her; Brilliant, legendary, a perfect British spy, the model for others to learn from, eyes rapt and adoring for having not yet sacrificed, for having not yet dared to glimpse behind the curtain, the horrors waiting patiently to greet them.

"Eight, sharp. I understand." And she did, with the entirety of all that she was, had been, thought she would become, she understood, the feeling of calm serenity flowing within her welcome as a lover's kiss, visions of hundreds of feet of adulterated wires appearing briefly in her mind.

Did she truly believe the services had murdered Diana? She couldn't quite say, though she found hard to reconcile the idea that Harry would have suborned any such action. She knew Peter had been an easy puppet, insidiously perfect as a tool to manipulate her, get her on side with those whose motivations were self promoting, destructive to the greater whole. She didn't know the details, didn't want to know the details, in truth. It was enough to be allowed to make good on a vow she had made long ago, while his blood had crusted and dried at her knees, as she fondled the bits of flotsam that had once been his head. _I will make them pay, my love._ Rocking while knelt before his lifeless body as it sat, cooling, one eye left to stare through her, beyond her, dull with the film of sights unseen to her. _And then, then I will follow._

"So, it begins, then,"

_So, it ends, _she silently agrees, smiling as a single tear escapes, landing on the crescent, the deepest, the most significant, _Peter,_ scaring her upturned palm.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**_A/N: Whew, that was a long one. I'll ask your forgiveness for the tone of this chapter, and plead not my fault. I've just watched Series 3 of "Scott &amp; Bailey," and Helen Bartlett simply broke my heart. Brilliant merely scratches the surface as relates Walker's heartbreaking portrayal. As for "Spooks," I've always felt that there was something more behind Ruth's need to be private, that instinct she had that seemed to prevent her from engaging on a personal level with even those presumably close to her. I thought that the Peter conundrum would lend itself perfectly, if drawn in such a way, in providing a situation which could have been viewed as natural, but twisted into something shameful instead. Also, I wanted to provide something more than the trite idea that "something unspoken happened," and illustrate that what Harry was asking her to do was more than simply manipulate Angela, manipulate a goal using a shared history, but demanding that she relive something that was traumatic and life changing, something he couldn't possibly have known. Possibly, I'm not explaining myself well, so I should hope that I managed to do so in this chapter. Feel free to let me know, one way, or the other._**


	11. Chapter 11: The Scorpion

_"__We are all plunging straight towards our own decline_

_Without noticing_

_We slide down, deeper down_

_The shadow grows without ever slowing down_

_We are heading straight_

_Into the fade out line_

_Deeper down"_

Phoebe Killdeer, "Fade Out Lines"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**11 November 2005; 5:15 AM:**

_Harry..._

His eyes open suddenly, the sound of her voice fading in the darkness, and he squints despite himself, gaging the shadows of his room, attempting to find her, sitting upright, watching. He can almost smell where she had been, though he knows it an impossibility, the physical manifestation of yearning tied maliciously to that keen sense of something unseen near him, malevolent and panting. It was customary now that his day's beginnings were marked with thoughts of her, just as those moments initiated before his eyes fell shut and he began his chase for unencumbered sleep. Over time, he had begun to smell her in those close moments, his senses drawn, needing the comfort, his mind dulled with drink, and she acted as a tonic of sorts, a curious balm which soothed his way into the nightmares that awaited him, as though she were holding his hand, and he need only to look down to believe he was no longer alone, walking the darkened halls of his memory in solitude.

In those first cautious moments when waking, his eyes swollen and heavy, his first deep inhale full with the scent of her, his cock responding to the vision of her in his head, still hearing the imagined conversations they had engaged in as they passed each of his ghosts in his dreams, whispered to him, as though real, as though he could reach out and place his hand on her, feel her hand held in his, touch her quickening pulse, feel her breathing next to him by his fingertips, and the acute feeling of despondency was as painful as the throbbing of his hardened cock, as the room began to take shape, and his absolute solitude reestablished dominance.

She had become an ache within him, and he found himself relishing both the pain and the horrible pleasure she released within him with every coming morning, anticipating her imagined presence with every nightfall, the kisses they shared, the moments he was given to fondle and explore her, his semi erect cock frequently marking his interactions with her while in her actual presence. In those moments, as the sun crept beyond the drawn shades, he understood Tom Quinn, knew the map that led to his undoing, recognizing it as the same held within his own hands, his undoing, his fall, his need for Ruth erasing all logic and custom. In those moments he both envied and forgave Tom all, such was the power she had over him, and the realization chilled him to the core.

So too had it become customary, a feeling upon waking, her skin still warming his fingertips, the niggling, indefinable tug of being watched. It felt notably different from the Khurvin circumstance, Juliet's handlers having exposed themselves, surprisingly overt, their lack of covert skill, clumsy, easily evaded, children dog paddling the deep end where the sharks sleeplessly glide beneath.

This game was peculiar, the characteristics distinctly familiar, reflective of a well trained, well organized and precise virtuoso adept and dedicated to the craft, and he was beginning to tire of the deep sense of being hunted, his awareness of having become prey acute, the surface of his skin painfully attuned, tingling, sensitive to the most subtle changes in his immediate atmosphere. Most immediately frustrating was the belief that it was right in front of him, the puzzle, pieces scattered, but nevertheless available if he could only pinpoint the exact pattern, discern either the catalyst or the finale, working backwards, forwards, positioning each piece to form the picture, methodical.

He knew the time for methodical had passed, though, and as he stood under the stream of water, motionless, his mind wandering with thoughts of her as her scent evaporated into steam, waiting for the heat to thaw the knots in his neck, soothe the anxiousness frozen at the base of his spine, he physically felt his hourglass depleting, the sense of foreboding, of time running out, its constancy never waining.

He had, perhaps foolishly he imagines now, chosen not to share his suspicions. In his generous moments, sat at his desk within the secure stronghold of the grid, he rationalized it away as not wanting to cause unnecessary alarm; In his callous moments, as he sat absently petting Scarlet, more than half a bottle in, justified by act of self preservation, that lie disguised as self restraint, that need to believe he hadn't turned some final corner, preserve the idea, if not simply the image, he wasn't past it. But he could be, past it, that is.

Pausing as he reaches for the towel, he considers that he might be past it, concentrating on the emotions the idea rustles awake, sorrow, fear, that curious mixture combined with just a taste of sudden irrelevancy. Perhaps he had begun seeing ghosts where there were none, suspicious with no provocation, the spook whose mind had started the long slide of turning in on itself, initiating the feast of his counterfeit soul, his future one of complete abandonment, cynicism, and disillusion. Hadn't he known the day would come? Hadn't his nights been filled with one ghost after another, both friend and foe, telling him to prepare for what one foolishly believed can be prepared for?

Staring at his reflection, he understands the need for so many before him to have pushed too far, tempt fate for one dance too many, finding it easy, then, to believe that those names scarring the wall were the lucky ones, the sacrificial lambs, though absent amongst us, held safe from the indignity of becoming obsolete, irrelevant...nothing. Theirs are the names spoken in admiration and sorrow, but who among us weeps for Clive, left to pasture and resentment, whiling the hours with furiously vengeful words until death wandered up the path to mercifully claim him? And himself, who will weep for him as he moves through the steps of his final dance, beyond reach, beyond saving, the dance too seductive too resist, his past trysts marked and scaring his body, his faceless partner understanding better than he it had all come to an end when he had first elected to accept the offered hand?

Irrationally, he thinks _I'd like it to be the tango._ Has to be, really. He was always good with a tango.

**-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-**

**11 November 2005; 6:45 AM:**

He knew it the moment he stepped onto the grid, glancing, as was habit, immediately to where Ruth sat, a whispered _Harry _sounding in his ear_. _Something was indescribably different, the tango he'd fantasized in which she figured quite prominently during his drive in evaporated instantly, replaced by a flutter within his stomach sounding _beware_, the tingle along his spine fueling a heightened sense of being alert, eyes focused, trained to see more than the obvious surface, ears attuned to the bustle occurring underneath.

The feeling gradually deepened, as she failed to deliver the myriad of reports, threat assessments, and overnight progress reports detailed succinctly for his early morning review. But it was her failure to acknowledge him in any degree that stung the most, a personal wound which festered throughout the day as she denied contact, her eyes falling everywhere but on him, her work delivered through intermediaries, delighted to assist her, unaware of the twisting knife.

She had, he knew, made several forays into Registry, reams of archived intelligence once reviewed, redeposited within their plastic sheathes, and returned promptly, but for two. Those, remaining on her desk, were the sticking point, he knew, readdressed frequently as early morning made its inevitable evolution towards afternoon, comparisons made, theories forming in that enviable and unique Ruth way. He didn't need to be told that the subject on which she was so furiously obsessed linked, somehow, to him. As such, the only conclusion left to him lay in the aesthetic interpretation of it; Whatever her lithe mind had uncovered, it was resoundingly damaging to him, and thus, by association, to them.

_And there it is_, the voice whispered quietly. Because, despite all his hypocritical efforts, despite the hours given to self restraint, meditations on control, despite the numerous bottles imbibed, and the deliberate distance he'd desperately attempted to fortify, despite it all and more, to him they, she and him, had become a _them_, no distinction, little individuality, they were a unit, hand in hand, his midnight frolics encroaching on his reality. He found himself privately terrified that he would not find the strength to separate what he had unconsciously combined into one when the demand came, well and truly lunatic despite himself. _I should have listened Tom, I should have sent her away. I should of_...but to have not experienced her, even the fleeting moments to date, a small series of deaths he'd no strength to fight, and he thinks she may very well be his last dance, that risky tango become fatal, limbs intertwined, his name carved deep on the wall, his hourglass still.

He had spent a more than advisable portion of his day attempting to pinpoint exactly what she had uncovered, very nearly asking that Malcolm look into it, though he had managed to gain control of himself as he approached the tech suite, and veer off into the kitchen under the auspices of needing tea. Still, his mind had continued to simmer, his inherent, and, yes, selfish need to know set at an uncomfortable slow boil, meditating, and, if he were honest, feeding his heart's resentments towards her, and by association Tom, by the spoonful. His abilities at precognition, to ascertain with absolute certainty, that longed for _Yes, this here, this is the thing_ moment failing him magnificently, he was left to wait her out, pouting and sullen, holed up in his office, maintaining what he hoped appeared to the whole as being otherwise occupied.

It wan't surprising his inability ferret the cause, regardless the condition of his psychic flow. No, infinitely easier, given the breadth of his career, to identify the operational mandate wherein he did not act in a manner for which he should be ashamed. And how could it not? The breadth of operational mandates accorded to him, off the books or sanctioned, would choke a bloody horse. This was a situation quite literally defined by an overabundance of choices, rather than a tremulous few, and god damn her for looking, and worse, finding. And god damn him for knowing she would, knowing that it would be too seductive not to, knowing that she was, every day, surpassing the minimal expectations of a desk agent, knowing that within her beat the heart of a born spook, his vanity, his absolute pride in the knowledge, _seeing her,_ distracting him from the inevitable that lay before him, the trap bated with the face he had grown to need with abandon.

His proactive ability to head off confrontations with a well placed, perfectly suited rationalization thus rendered impotent as a tactic, he had resigned himself in the early evening hours to the inevitable reveal, that moment chosen by her, reasons unfathomable to him, to broach the offense, crossing the divide recently formed for it's existence, understanding his ability to thrust and parry without foreknowledge paramount to reaching an amicable resolution.

While his bruised vanity, his instinctual callousness demanded he strike back, slight for slight, he nevertheless reminded himself she was not Jane, she of the sharp tongue and well delivered insult, but Ruth, silently percolating over time, mulling the details until each fissure of intelligence was devoid of fruitful reward. Her innate thoroughness was a merciless weapon, but one wielded with a compassionate heart, and as such, far more potentially devastating than outright loathing, as with Jane, cruel words designed to cut and shred the recipient, familiar ground, as his heart demanded, as his heart preferred.

Simultaneous to the moment he had consciously relinquished control of the inevitable, she had looked directly at him, captured him in the act of observing her, conversation continuing with Adam, though her eyes held his across the grid, and he read within their depths, apprehension, resignation, fear, in turns, each merging into, and from the other. His eyes, unwilling to look away, he braced himself, attempted to clear his mind of needless fancies, suit his face to give nothing away,_ moments away, this unexpected test, and judgement not long, thereafter, _the precariousness of her, ever present and pulsing within the room.

He had watched, then, as her face changed horribly, registering something close to a grimace of pain, discomfort, her eyes quickly dancing elsewhere from his. Slowly rising from her seat, her hands appearing to support her, alarm and foreboding vying for supremacy, her mouth dropped open slightly, breath coming in quick, short gasps, and he rose quickly from his chair, certain she was moments from either hyperventilating or fainting, perhaps both.

Adam, likewise concerned, had moved closer to her, closing the gap faster than he emerging from his office, and once unencumbered by walls, several things happened in rapid succession, his senses unaccountably accelerating before he'd chance to fully evaluate the innate instinct, the unidentified reason.

Entering onto the grid proper, he'd observed, first, Juliet, then, catching a hint of Jo's perfume as she headed, he'd assumed, to the tech suite, Ruth had fallen deathly pale, her characteristic flush of nerves appearing as dark smudges of blood decorating her cheeks, accentuating her pallor; And finally, most disturbing, before him stood Angela Wells, a ghost from the past, his instinct for caution clamoring in his head as Juliet excused her beach of protocol while simultaneously depositing a semiretired fortress of considerable skills in his lap.

The curiousness of the present circumstances struck him as immediately suspect. A forgotten, decommissioned spook emerging unannounced from the mists, smuggled on the arm of a periodic adversary, a reclaimed member of the anonymous masses allowed access to the pulse point of counter terrorism. _Juliet,_ _what are you playing at, now? _Incredulous, he watched, adopting a passive attitude despite the egregious breach in protocol, and quietly wondered the circumstances, the curious set of events which would require him to suspend his considerable disbelief in coincidence, and swallow the suggestion they had simply happened upon one another, as though a perfectly reasonable alternative scenario could not be fathomed.

Watching as those present began to enthusiastically stroke the vanity of an admittedly once brilliant agent, silently observing as she feigned humility and self deprecations, he felt as though he was a spectator, set apart while watching a well rehearsed play. It was the blatant incongruity, blindingly dubious to his eyes, eyes which were, in that simultaneous moment, ferreting the unsuspected movement behind the curtain backdrop, his mind whispering, _There it is, do you see?_ And he did, smelling the snare without seeing its location, its origins, he knew it for an act of subtle premeditation, its fortifications gathering strength elsewhere, a trap, foremost in nature, designed to ensnare or propel, he could not conclude.

Moving aside, allowing Malcolm his moment to genuflect before one whom he had long idolized, he registered the glances, the whispered words passing between Adam and Ruth, he scenting something unseen, she twisting in her shrugged denials, gathering articles strewn about her desk, her movements belying her alarm.

Suspicious of her presence, intuitively understanding Angela as the reason behind Ruth's sudden and erratic behavior, he moved to resolve the silent conflict, mitigate the damage already done, inviting Angela to join him in his office, the guise of reminiscence proving fortunate, an opportunity to examine the trap before sprung, their progress halted almost before the invite had passed his lips.

"No. Get her out. Get her out of here, NOW!" Taken aback, struck by the vehemence of the demand, shockingly ferocious and compelling, only Adam willing to openly take her side, and he, left on the back foot, attempting to piece together a puzzle whose components remained, to the naked eye, hidden, yet to his intuition, attainable would that he be allowed the time to examine, the opportunity just within reach, unexpectedly retracted with her explosive outburst.

"Oh, I don't think I'm going to leave this early, do you Ruth?"

_Christ._

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**11 November 2005; 5:15PM:**

_"__...Contingent Events Committee."_

He hadn't heard what had transpired before the words were spoken; Or, alternatively, what had been spoken evaporated from memory the moment they were uttered. He needn't have bothered. He saw the path clearly having the whole of the story now firmly within his grasp, the direction this incursion would take already divined and decided. In truth, he didn't care, it all fell away as those three words filled his head, so too any rationalization he'd left to absolve himself, placed as he was firmly between glass and slide.

He knew what the report stipulated. He knew, too, the truth of why the Committee had been convened. Still, examined under a specific light, he wasn't so deluded as to not recognize what it _could_ suggest, how it _could be_ interpreted, in fact, the conclusion collectively feared, each obscured participant scrambling blindly, hastening to erase trace evidence, the incriminating bread trail, after her death. At a guess, he understood the fault lay in some secreted copy of a NO EYES document, a contingency intended to absolve and protect the bearer alone, and his mind automatically began listing those present, silently claiming their seat at the table, evaluating which as the candidate most likely. Though not frequently common, this was not the first, nor he guessed, the last time he would be faced with incriminating documents thought destroyed. He was, like his professional counterparts, in possession of similar contraband detailing a myriad of clandestine meetings, some in which he was an active participant, more wherein he was not, but for surveillance obtained and secreted.

Casting his eyes to Ruth, he finds he's not surprised she should have believed it, that he could act thus, though no less deeply saddening to him presently. He wondered idly when she had been provided the details, the manner in which they had come into her possession, concluding handily that Angela figured prominently, intuitively recognizing that even with her considerable skills, she was simply the most obvious rube distracting from the greater unidentified mechanism driving events forward. So obvious, then, as the venue used began to distinguish itself from hypotheses to undeniable fact as he watched; A hollowed tooth, designed specifically to secret documents across lines, and he experiences a momentary start of rage as he remembers Northern Ireland, Bill; Angela, golden and perfectly suited, the lessons learned with the INLA useful instruments in her manipulation of Ruth, providing just enough evidence that she would come to believe him capable, allow those moments where he had cautiously exposed himself to her, allowing her the rarest glimpse of him, establish this tether with him, to fall away, paling against the breadth of what he still held from her, the believability of his reputation surmounting despite what he had cavalierly hoped she knew in her heart.

It was a technique drilled into them from the start, this manipulation raised to art form, leaving little opportunity but to act exactly as the manipulator intended. How many times had he allowed an asset to draw their own conclusions, giving them just enough to hang themselves with their own imagined narrative of truths? A more consistently effective way to convince someone of something than allowing them to illustrate the visions themselves has never, in his considerable experience, been invented. _Sean Murphy,_ the voice whispers, and he feels his right eye twitch in recognition, eyes shifting slowly back to Angela.

_Sean Murphy_, second son to a man whose generations littered the streets of Northern Ireland, a man for whom bomb fabrication came second nature, a hereditary imprint staining his DNA. Angela had expertly manipulated him, allowed Sean Murphy to illustrate his own torture, watched as her quiet suggestion his beloved Michelle was fucking his father took hold, the worm twisting in to root deep behind his eyes, the lovers trysts forming, dissolving, and forming again. She had spoken of numerous infidelities, detailed the shame of an unfaithful slut for a wife, held him as he sobbed against her shoulder, _What manner of loyalty did he owe_, whispered into his ear, her eyes sharp and cold, _Something should be done, shouldn't it? _

The exiled memories begin to shake the slumber holding them deep within his mind's shadows, taking color and life, breathing anew, his mouth twitching, the taste both vivid and foul, the images beginning to slice at him because Sean Murphy, as it happened, had done something. Three days later Sean Murphy had, quietly, casual as a Sunday stroll along a sedate pond, taken the path which wound towards his father's, and upon finding him, bent over, unguarded, vulnerable as he worked his land, walked up behind him, and blew his brains across a pasture covered in clover with a contraband 12 gauge. Which, as he recalls now, his throat tightening, mouth dry, was the desired outcome. The father, Michael, a gifted bomb maker, clever and exacting, his immediate removal was deemed necessary, the task given to Angela, the direction conceived by him. The end was...exceptionally executed, perfectly orchestrated, and as predictable as pedestrian.

What happened next, as Michael Murphy lay in pieces cooling, the mist his fatal wound created winding above the clover, curling around itself and dissipating into ether, was not planned, or expected, or...as easily forgotten in his memory. Sean Murphy had placed the end of that same 12 gauge, still warm and stinking of his father's ruined, burnt flesh, against his beloved Michelle's head and pulled the trigger, splattering her brain across three walls in his father's kitchen, slicing his own throat open when done, bleeding out as he held his dead wife in his arms, curled around her on the floor.

He remembers the smell of baking bread, the yeasty warmth filling his senses then, and the incongruity of the blood spattered room, the bits of ofall decorating the room against the yearning deep within him to concentrate on the comfort afforded by that delicious smell, _she had been baking bread, is all_, the struggle within him became so clamorous in that moment he'd had to escape outside, breathing deeply, his eyes nevertheless straying to the fallen form of the father lifeless in the distance. To this day, he avoids all manner of bake shops in the early morning, the flour and sugar and pastries browning effortlessly as the sun barely peeks above the horizon, a delicate sweet to others, a habitual torture to him.

The skin tightens around his eyes, pulling along his scalp, as he remembers Angela's face when he relayed the subsequent events, watching as she registered nothing, her face the picture of quiet acceptance. His guilt at knowing Michelle Murphy had never strayed; Knowing that Michelle Murphy had loved her husband to distraction, seeing the bits of her glistening on the walls in his minds eye...Angela had betrayed nothing, and he had become secretly unnerved at the smile that played briefly upon her lips, her eyes never losing their frigid gleam.

He's momentarily troubled by the thought that his history is littered with similar events, the ends superficially justifying the means, the unintended fatalities categorized handily as acceptable losses. And yet, he finds more often than not, they float within him, dancing endlessly in the corridors of his personal memories and nightmares, becoming neither nameless nor the dehumanized faceless chaff homogenized for better palatability. No, they stare back at him, en masse, standing side by side, the legion named, accusing and restless, feeding his need for self-control, self restraint, the two pillars for which he has come to depend.

He remembers taking a full bottle into the shower that night, the shattered skull of Michelle Murphy following closely behind, shaking until his knees gave way, drawing directly from the neck, desperate to silence his conscience, desperate to forget Angela's laughter as the team celebrated a goal achieved.

He'd fucked her for the first time that night, an impetuous impulse designed to both gage her awful perfection and dull the voices whispering of his monstrous complicity, frenzied and violent. Their couplings throughout that night into early morning were fueled by his rage and her blatant indifference to what they had, as a team, wrought, and continued for a short time after, though he had often found himself surprised his cock remained intact so deep was the frost within her, and in his mind he had begun to regard her as vampiric, lifeless, cold, and viciously single-minded...the perfect, unimpeachable killer.

In that moment, as the memory of Angela's queer adaptability still occupied his thoughts, he dared to turn and capture Ruth's eyes, and found he rather envied her ease of ability, erecting an unscalable fortress around herself instantly, covetous of her good fortune at having been alerted some time previous, apparently the only one among them. _She knows_, his mind whispered. Somehow, some way, she had ferreted the proof, _God help him_, and he was uncomfortably reminded of a time not so distant that he had entertained the idea of allowing Ruth to turn her sights on Juliet, watch with no small amount of amusement as she methodically set about destroying her. The irony of being on the receiving end of what he had foolishly regarded as a personal weapon, _his _within a limitless arsenal against others, now inexorably focused on him, was not lost on him, nor was the feeling of dread settling against his spine, the kind which spoke _You're blown._

It was the fact that no matter how many times he attempted to catch her eye, to silently reassure her that all would be fine, an ill-fated communication offered repeatedly between them, she turned away, and he was loathe, even in this moment of more immediate catastrophe, to see himself reflected in her eyes. Irrationally, that inability to look him in the eyes was the sum total of his foremost concerns, and he felt his face suffusing pink with equal parts shame and frustration, that even now, in the darkened halls of a forced lock down, she remained that obsession with which he could not shake himself free.

He felt the sting, as though she had slapped him clean across the face, that she had done all of this, the gathering of intelligence, the numerous trips to Registry, all of it, _right under his nose,_ his only indication that something was amiss her deliberate avoidance of him. Not casual, he knows by observed nature of her movements over the years, _Mr Shadow, watching, watching_, but deliberate and the thought, ludicrous even to himself, fills him with elation, hope that he could still find his way; And then, just as quickly, resentment, an oily, dark mass burgeoning thick and suffocatingly heavy across his chest, urging him to lash back, demanding he bite so that he may breathe again. God, how he wanted to hurt her, the thirst for it filing his dry mouth with bile, his lips forming a thin line, and he knew in his heart his better angels could be in that God Damned bag for all he was inclined listen to them, revolving as he was in the heat of anger, misapprehension and perceived judgements.

The tether joining them _twanged_ again, violently, causing his breath to catch, his mind chanting, _fucking bitch, you fucking traitorous bitch that you could think this of me_, dismissive of facts, contemptuous of his own admitted attempts to hide from what he knew, _they all knew_, would form the resounding interpretation if discovered, and his roiling hatred for her joined his furious desire, combining together, forcing his eyes shut, the tightrope bouncing precariously as he attempted to navigate, gain control, right himself. God Damn you, why must you look, why must you see me and yet fail so spectacularly to know me now?

His eyes closed, then, needing to breathe, needing to plot the course, needing to see the steps required to right himself, to confront and destroy, small scale decimation to prevent a larger tragedy by rote, and in that moment of quiet, as he silently begs the orchestration to begin, he recognizes naught but the solitary specter wearing the shattered face of Michelle Murphy, her ruined smile taunting from the distance, the gold ring on her pale left hand glinting ominously.

And as though offered in greeting, his heart whispered,

_You're blown, and on your own, mate._

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**A/N: 4.10 is proving to be a bugger, so I'll be taking it in several chapters as there is a tremendous amount I want to do with this backdrop in particular. A better than fair portion of these chapters going forward will rest firmly in AU territory, so I do thank those of you who continue to buy a ticket, and take the ride. Also, many thank yous to those who have taken the time to review, it is most appreciated, and my interest in hearing the various interpretations through your eyes is unabashedly keen. Special thanks to Sherlock1921 as without your kind words and direction I would have no doubt acted on an impulse better left alone. I do so enjoy our correspondence and think of you as my own library for all things UK related-Gordon Bennett, and romance is planned, so watch this space? Did I get that right? :)**


	12. Chapter 12: The Scorpion's Sting

**_A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed last, I'd thought to have lost a fair portion of you, so I find myself pleased that you've opted to continue a bit further on this ride! This follows directly from the last, and just a quick reminder that AU is very much in play. _**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o******

"_When I'm sad, she comes to me,_

_With a thousand smiles she gives to me free._

_It's alright, she says it's alright,_

_Take anything you want from me,_

_Anything._

_Fly on little wing."_

-Jimmy Hendrix, "Little Wing"

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**11 November 2005: 8:35 PM:**

_How had it come to this? _Casting his eyes, he took in the furious activity on the darkened grid; Zaf, his extensive research, disturbingly factual, scribbled against a transparent plexiglass littered with photographs, arrows, the flowchart detailing events his committee had accurately predicted years ago, in truth, they had gone to great expense and effort to rend untraceable. The conclusions he was drawing, as he observed, closer to the truth than fantasy, though entirely counterfeit.

Absurdly he was both proud and chaffed with Zaf despite himself as each additional detail mapped became, as he watched helplessly, another level of uncomfortable vulnerability experienced, each conclusion, skillfully drawn, another corrosive agent applied, rending him exposed and seeping, exiled to the cell that had been his office.

He understood, without need of verbal embellishments, that Adam had taken Ruth's side, an alliance which fortified his acute sense of banishment, and though he was not exactly surprised by the decision, he was not so removed as to not experience a moment of jealousy for the conspiracy they made, against him, and no small amount of frustration that she had chosen to confide in someone other than himself, whispering together, investigating, despite him, those truths best left hidden. _Oh, Ruth..._

Superficially, he'd long since reconciled their immediate opponent was Angela Wells, yet with the shifting sands of coalitions fusing between everyone present, he'd regretfully acknowledged _he_ faced numerous opponents, each member of his team, and not simply the agent become Judas currently fondling a detonator. Nor, it would seem, those still remaining behind the veil, _Oliver, Jools, Juliet,_ figuring prominently in his imaginings, their collective machinations designed to achieve a goal he was loathe to consider even now.

Ironically, he found himself experiencing a fair portion of animosity towards those that would hold themselves apart from him, believing, if only as a fleeting thought, he were capable of what was so clearly believable as Zaf continued to metaphorically flay him. His irritation, growing bitterness, and deep seated cynicism proved more powerful than the dulling favors customarily afforded him through drink, and, as if to prove the exception, his copious consumption thus far had done little but enforce those unpleasant and habitual emotions characteristic to his solitude. So many years, deliberate in maintaining distance, and yet the wound they left remained despite him, weeping and raw.

He was angry, irrationally so, and his rage began to eat at him, consuming in short order both his ability to exercise restraint and emotional control, leaving him uncharacteristically floundering, fueling his considerable frustration, a snake eating its own tail. He nearly laughed aloud at the image, the desperate appropriateness striking him both viciously humorous and predictable that he should be the one called to answer, held accountable and identified as Chairman, the bureaucratic trail never entirely erased, labyrinthine, casting shadows which engulf and suffocate once discovered.

Hadn't he, in his moments of solitude, moments when the ghosts came to greet him, anticipated at some point a moment for which he should righteously be called to account for his past, the numerous actions within which he'd willingly engaged littering his memory, befitting the call? As he sits within the confines of his office, its customary scarlet hue extinguished in compliance of protocol, the forced lock down rendering shadows where he had not thought to look, he cannot deny to himself he had always known the day would come, though he had lauded himself frequently that he would find himself better prepared for its arrival.

The psychological assessment of Angela had fallen to him, colleagues whose rumored familiarity and past associations had determined that he, amongst them, was uniquely suited to the task. They had, individually, participated in countless undercover operations in defense of the Realm, and each were, he acknowledged to himself, equal in the requisite skills characteristic to the psychological warfare made necessary with this incursion.

The specter of Michelle Murphy appears again, briefly floating in the shadows, and he considers for the moment, mirroring his early morning insecurities, he might not be up to the task, dismissing the idea that Angela is likewise tortured by past innocents, and thus, not hampered by a vulnerability they do not share. He'd like to credit it to some small measure of humanity remaining within his broken soul, but stops just short of believing it a factual reality, whether to retain some minuscule standard of distance or to fuel his need to believe himself unworthy of the absolution such humanity would provide he couldn't, wouldn't guess at presently.

Adding to his growing discomfort, the absence of scarlet hue habitually illuminating his office, and he was not altogether surprised to discover the diffusing comfort, once extinguished, had become a mundane simplicity on which he had unconsciously grown to depend. In the bleak lighting remaining to him, he needn't have wondered why it was that he seemed to have a habit of dismissing the simple, banal comforts afforded him, the scant few he could readily identify, only to mourn them once taken away? He mourned Ben, Jane, his children, his mother never once holding himself to the fire of accountability, of knowing his part had been played, his choice made to take it all for granted, only deigning to notice their importance once removed.

And so it was, fingers tapping the rim of his glass, awash in shadows, mourning his scarlet comforts, he concluded he had spent roughly fifteen plus years taking the circuitous route, only to arrive at the same emotionally stunted 'X' mark in the sand. He was no more self actualized than he was at the start, he'd simply gravitated towards a profession which elevated manipulation to an art form, embraced one's ability to lie, rationalize, justify numerous and sundry selfishly pursued goals serving to welcome and propel them through the ranks, never undermining, unless one where foolish enough to retain the faintest leanings of conscience.

_Fair is foul, _

_and foul is fair, _

_and we shall meet when the hurly-burly's done, _

_and the battle's lost and won. _

He could not imagine a line of work, a profession as a whole, more alined in nature to the weird sisters three plucked from the Bard's head and provided as a cautionary tale, a roadmap to the secrets held in the hearts of men. Not for the first time does he understand that, like the works of Conrad, prescient and forewarning, one cannot possibly fathom the depths of truths therein until one had been seasoned, and broken, betrayed and flayed, old and jaded, life having fed and discarded one as so much gristle.

He smirks quickly, _Shakespeare, Conrad, and Neil Young, their wisdom is wasted on the young and old alike, _raising his glass in obligatory toast before placing it against his lips and drawing deeply.

He had denied it, of course, when they had come to him, the printed minutes of that long ago clandestine meeting in her hand. He had watched her face, his insides churning with equal parts resentment, anger, and sympathy, her eyes telegraphing her desire to believe him even as he saw the flicker that spoke she could not, would not. He had seen that look in his own eyes on too many occasions himself, staring back from the mirror, wanting to believe, knowing it for a lie regardless. Adam had prevented her from continuing, and though his back had been turned, he'd seen it in her hands as she'd made little attempt to hide its acquisition, knew it for his diary, its reveal impeded as Adam had taken it from her fidgeting hands, the moment, mere seconds in total, marking his absolute exile from them, that minuscule passage of time wherein they became, instantly, both a unit and enemy.

He wonders now if he had, inadvertently, initiated a series of mind games the moment he had turned his back deliberately away from them, his denial still hanging between them, his request for the origins of said minutes handily sidelined? Or, alternatively, had the mind game he offered been hers alone to claim, an effort to discern how deeply she believed him capable measured by single proffered chance to confess all to him, a juncture in which to save herself, while his eyes were turned away, his heart yearning for her to come clean, his need for her to understand and confess a perversity both appealing and repellent to him? His displeasure in her willingness to deny him her confession paled in comparison to the outright malice unfolding within him as she made her choice.

Irrationally, his mind game began turning in on itself, denying the justifiable reasons for her choice, ignoring that Adam was running the op and thus the appropriate recipient of information gathered. She had confessed, in part, though likely not the whole of it, of that he was certain; And in that confession she had chosen Adam. Not him, Adam. The choice, while perfectly legitimate on its face, had wounded him deeply, nevertheless. Wounded him in a way he'd not thought himself vulnerable, a revelation which he found wounded him still deeper.

Reexamining his motives then, fissures of rage still simmering just below his surface calm, he could not deny that he had turned from them, from her, as a punishment, knowing the truth they had yet to discover, anticipating the moment all would be revealed, his innocence established, another victim of an aberrant bureaucracy unleashed. Using the knowledge of things unknown, the end predetermined by undeniable fact from the outset, he allowed the betrayal he felt to fuel his growing malice, using it as combustable accelerant, fortifying the walls insulating his weaknesses, allowing him the distance found in objectivity, logic, and duty.

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**11 November 2005; 9:56PM**

In the grey light remaining, the details afforded him within the official records gathered before him were as austere as illuminating. His task assigned, he had immediately procured both Angela and Peter Haigh's official records, deciding to appropriate Ruth's almost as an afterthought. Of the three, only Ruth's remained unaddressed before him, and as his fingers caressed the folder itself, contents within still unknown to him, he deliberately ignored the tug of conscience, the slight niggling of guilt that danced the periphery, understanding that reading her file was an invasion of sorts, an assault which his heart knew to be wrong, but which his roiling malice demanded as duty, whispering his entitlements as his conscience fought him.

It became a challenge, perversely tantalizing, the file set before him, to see exactly how long he could refrain, the yardstick by which to measure the depth of his self control and restraint, his desire to consume the contents whole pulsing despite his resentments, despite his being cast from them. The picture proved his undoing, and if he were honest, he would not describe it as flattering to her as it was. Perhaps it had been the blunt nature of it, dead center, absent of smile or any notable emotion that had been the trigger? In the simplest terms, the nakedness, the bare honesty had tugged at his heart, the paradoxical nature of her, the living breathing her he had come to know, inconsistent with the photo sat before him.

He believed himself, then, capable of having seen her, beyond the surface, his belief in such a furiously vacillating state of mind, and yet he understood that she had shown him the merest secrets within her, revealing to him all that would, and could, be withheld from others, so infinitely precious that she would withhold evidence of their certain presence even in something so innocuous as a security photograph. It had warmed him as much as hurt him, the idea that she had revealed herself in part to him, the feeling of isolation from them all keen, and, like so much mist, dissolved beneath his touch as his past thundered into the present.

He had succumbed, to his considerable shame, rather easily then, his desire to know more, see more, feeling the opportunity slipping from him, time growing short, and he ate himself full. Brushing the feelings better suited to invasion easily aside in defense of the realm, his eyes caressed the words, tasting them without opportunity to taste her, his imagination providing words not before him, coloring where only black and white details lived. Her distance from him remained tantalizing, the tug of their imaginary tether vibrating with strain throughout, and he found himself again both bemused and stunned that even in the midst immediate peril, he was incapable of relinquishing that desire to have her, find himself clean in her eyes, to wash himself bare with her absolutions and generosity.

Even now, as he watches her whispering with Adam, she is more alive than her picture would allude to, watching as Zaf enunciates with exact precision the conclusions of his fabricated flowchart, his eyes trace the line of her thigh as it rests against the desk, the fabric pulled tightly against the muscles hidden within, the gleam of her neck, exposed, the pale skin of her chest luminescent in the artificial light above her, the shadows catching the curve of her breast, the soft swell highlighted for his personal pleasure and torture. 

_Isn't that your preferred remit_, his heart whispered, quietly, his pulse thudding in time? Hadn't it always come to this, in the end? His libido shifting into overdrive, hardwired and intertwined with moments of tension and risk resulting in his need to feel something, drown in something warm and wet and welcoming, that connection which would keep him grounded, as primal as ill timed, an all encompassing, predetermined urge demanding he act, requiring satisfaction?

How many women had borne of his furious lusts, believing themselves to be needed beyond what their body could momentarily provide, and he selfishly allowing it, whispering all manner of words,_ lies_, so that their legs would part, teasing them until they begged him to fuck them? Many, their names littering his own file, gratuitously excessive, the S24s, forms granting 'permission to fuck,' and countless those that simply writhed beneath him once, half asleep as he rose from them to disappear like smoke. Not a single one had captured him as she had, though the thought did little to absolve him his past, neither did it lessen or eliminate his primal need to fuck her.

Face flinching with distaste, his stomach churns a bit with this last thought, though not derived of desire, but rather in disgust that he would regard her along side all the others; An object to crave, to fuck, to use as a selfish means of release, her body a receptacle for his demons and nightmares, her innate kindness a meager weapon of defense for this measure of warfare with which he found himself all too devastatingly familiar.

The other women were, despite their association with him, be it brief or one-off, safe when all was concluded, and it was largely this particularly frequent rationalization which afforded him some paltry sense of redemption in action. He did not care about them, who they were, what they thought beyond that which had attracted him to begin with. They were startlingly homogenous as a whole, their only distinctions being the manner and means by which they met, and the scent of their individually inflamed arousal. They remained, mercifully he'd believed, untainted by his poisons, not having been important enough to roust the tendrils of pestilence, not present for long enough for those tendrils to entwine and root. If he'd been asked to name a single one of them, he'd likely manage but a few names, and those due in large part to their vague resemblance to either Jane or Rebecca, that long ago first love who had grown to love another. They wanted, in their time together, nothing from him but his cock, and he'd wanted nothing but a warm place in which to lay himself, mutually beneficial, the harshly clinical mechanics more a benefit than obstruction.

He wanted Ruth, contrarily, in a wholly encompassing fashion, having glimpsed her, having spent hours merely observing her rather than touching and caressing, and the exchange of action, while entirely at variance with his natural instincts, left him loathe to aline her with those before her, the requisite S24 becoming detrimentally more obscene were her name to suddenly appear amidst the meaningless chaff held within his own file.

_She_ had aroused the tendrils, and they reached for her still, wanting to wrap themselves around her, feeding on her, rooting within her even as he wished to do the same, her body wrapped in his, heartbeat slowly synchronizing as they breathe into one another. A curious conundrum, he found; Wanting her, refusing to distain her with an S24, needing to protect her by keeping her in proximity, desperate to ensure the same through distance. A more appropriate nightmare befitting a known philanderer, a consummate lier and Mr. Shadow, he could not have imagined, and he chuckled softly to himself at life, its merciless sense of humor which appeared to relish a thorough, deep cut.

Forcing himself from these thoughts, he sets her picture aside, opening her file, beginning to read only after he pours another two fingers, the glass resting deliberately on the face on Peter Haigh's security photograph, features morphing fluidly as the glass fills with amber liquid. Within moments, he is struck by the subtle intuition she had used her acquired skills to alter her file in no small measure. As it lay before him, her file would not have passed examination and afford her a position with GCHQ, let alone MI5. Where Angela's chronicled what appeared to be every moment of her existence from birth to the point of superfluous pandering, Ruth's allowed singularly superficial basics which conveyed nothing overtly illuminating, while entire years seemed to have been overlooked entirely within her background check.

Haigh's was as likewise detailed as Angela's, though considerably less impressive, culminating in his dismissal from Royal Protection, the excessively ample 'deceased' stamp, vividly red, holding pride of place amidst the bland facts meticulously detailed. It did conspicuously little to clarify the relationship between the three, the particulars provided falling exclusively within the area of superficiality, the minutiae of previously established facts. The backstory, the meat and blood comprising the tumor shared between them, would be found elsewhere, if he were lucky, and to that extent he believed he'd likely extinguished that well some time ago, returning to peer over the rim regardless, beggars bucket in hand.

Sifting again through the minimal pages within her file, pausing in frustration, his gaze stilled on her photograph, gazing into her eyes, his mind a constant refrain, _hiding secrets, secrets, what have you hidden, Ruth?_ She had, intuition forming into fact quite effortlessly, altered her bloody file, maintaining her strict adherence to privacy, the act a significant breach in protocol, and he found himself both subtly aroused and intrigued by the thought, the brash insolence so undeniably mirroring his own, the effect on him was vaguely erotic, yet powerful as an aphrodisiac, provoking and destructive. _Clever girl. _

She had successfully orchestrated a significant breach in the midst of security understood to be the finest available. The audacity of her actions left him momentarily dumbstruck while simultaneously experiencing a jolt of lust so twisting and deep at being outmaneuvered he'd had to close his eyes and concentrate on his breathing to regain the smallest measure of control.

While the awakened, unforeseen level of lust twisted deeper within him, feeding his imagination, he pondered the idea that he didn't know the first thing about her, which then lent itself quite naturally to the conclusion that if he didn't know her, then his imagined embellishments to the exact nature of her character could be as easily wonton as prudish. Which, given the nature of his preference, unlocked a Pandora's box of vivid fantasies within him he'd bitten the inside of his mouth to force the visions back into the shadows.

Human nature to keep secrets, he supposed, his tongue tasting the blood, probing his inner cheek, the lure to reveal them equally potent, and in the greater business of espionage, that nature formed the foundation on which they all worked to save themselves, and others, the Realm. Having dutifully performed for so long his role, his cumulative breadth of secrets hidden were legion, fiercely guarded, the initial voracity of application marking his beginnings evolving to something close to unconscious ability, requiring little concentration or deliberate effort on his part to maintain them at present. Still, he was quite incapable of stopping himself from looking under the table, behind the curtain, where others were concerned, the inherent hypocrisy, his unwillingness to suffer the withheld secrets entitled to others proving a persuasive ally. The fact that Ruth had effectively prevented him from doing so, had quietly secured the upper hand, and he left none the wiser, was as shocking as if she had struck him clean across the face.

But it was the nature of her secrets that aroused him, her attempt to hide which provoked him, and he did not laud himself presently that it meant anything more meaningful, genuine and pure, otherwise. He knew himself too well, and that lie could not be eaten. Leafing through the sparse documents contained in her file, he understood the truth of his affections lay firmly within the revolving secrets she held, the inner workings of her mind and heart a provocation which called to him, stimulating him both mentally and physically, his need to reveal her, layer by layer, pulsing.

She had secrets, secrets she wanted to remain hidden, whole years worth of secrets, and the image of a wonton Ruth forming in his consciousness, laying back invitingly, her smile hiding those secrets nearly drove him mad. _Because it was mad_, his inner voice railed; It was most seriously mad, insane, completely irrational that he wanted to choke every last secret out of her, thrust so deep inside her that the words fell from her lips in order to accommodate the breadth of his cock, consuming whole the years she would keep hidden from him, plunging into her until she was so wide open he could do nothing but lay within her, engorged and drunk with her secrets, and she clinging to the last of them until only he remained.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**11 November 2005; 11:37PM:**

_Peter Haigh._ One man, two women, easily interpreted, the most obvious situation, a triangle whose established affections, liaisons, sexual antics demanded conflict, each participant reacting with bland historical predictability. His mind conjured a picture of him, one illustrated by those contained in his discarded file; Handsome, bordering on rugged, tall, broad shouldered, a solid mass of muscle befitting one who was tasked to protect members of the Royal Family. He was in physical presence very similar in appearance to Fortescue, and as much as his mind strained to deny, his heart told him that there had been something between them, Haigh and Ruth, her preferred type undeniable to him now in the glaring comparison.

Despite himself, the need to decipher the connection between the three remained overwhelming, fueling his peculiar, habitually self destructive desire for risk. And just as he did when her interest in Fortescue became unnerving to him, he resolved to undermine her again, determined to deny her even this secreted measure of affection, privacy, because its existence did not originate from him, angry that she could, in his imaginings, reciprocate with others what she would continue to deny him.

_Peter Haigh._ He said the name out loud, softly, let it roll from his lips as his fingers punched out the name, hen picking his way across the keyboard, drawing more documents from the grey void named 'elsewhere,' searching for the thing that was hidden, the thing that she had failed to wipe, the inconsistency which would prove the spark.

It was with an almost childish delight that he'd discovered her furtive ministrations had not extended to include the documented library, the posthumous archived narrative which had once belonged to Haigh, still accessible despite her. He followed the trace hints remaining, available where she had removed them from her own, each element of interest noted in his indecipherable longhand, the characteristic scribbles filling half a page.

He was both struck by her failure to be thorough, and elated that she had not thought to be more thorough, likely down to having been interrupted, or perhaps, a nod at her own hubris in believing she had wiped all there was worth erasing? Wasn't that exactly the snare for which we spies dared to hope? Those tragically forgotten bits of extraneous intel that, when compiled, shook the house of cards, the gust of wind blowing each, adrift and unconnected, before falling together, the Rorschach patterns a story waiting only to be deciphered, interpreted.

His fingers clicked rapidly at the mouse in his hand, the photographs of Haigh printing to his right, moments secured in time, as he had expected, yet he found himself surprised that several included the face of one he'd now become painfully familiar with; Ruth holding a cup of tea, bright yellow Wellies adorning her feet, walking side by side with him, the backdrop of Oxford recognizable to him having walked the same path years before them. Ruth, laughing, Haigh grinning happily down at her, the city bus a blur behind them. There were more recent shots capturing Haigh with Angela, also present in her extensive file, though likely that inclusion was due, if one were to believe the rumors, as proof she had disregarded all council and reprimands for her continued association with him. There were no photographs in Ruth's file apart from the unadorned example staring at him from his desktop. The number included within the other two simply highlighted, to his experienced eye, their egregious absence, taken by him as an unspoken dare he'd found too seductive to ignore, the backstory vibrating along his consciousness, shimmering with longing to be allowed opportunity to speak.

He sipped absently at his scotch as each printed, then he quickly set about placing them in some order he thought closest to chronological, manner of dress, background ephemera his guide. It was there, once they had been laid that he began to recognize the details, began to distill the story down into the pinpointed moment that had led from then to now.

There was a humming sound penetrating his thoughts, as his eyes lifted from the photographs, searching the room to root the origin, _what fresh hell_, astonished to find it living within his head. Perhaps it were his better angels, their wings blinding with rapid movement, the din created meant to distract him from his course. _No,_ just as quickly, _those creatures are just as your left them, abandoned to confines of an explosive handbag. _The hum of inherent hardwiring, then? _Yes,_ the reply, _lets go with that._

Easier, that rationalization, infinitely so, all the better for allowing him to believe himself faultless in the trade, the act instinctual, intrinsic to his person, and one can hardly blame the scorpion for its sting once provoked. Had she provoked him? Had she really? Or, rather, had she not acted in a manner so like himself he was forced to twist events into acts of provocation better suited to his needs, both personal and immediate?

His head bent to reexamine the collection of photographs, he saw there had been affection, though nothing which would suggest anything untoward between them. A cursory glance provided evidence of sibling familiarity, one he recognized from pictures taken of his own children, pictures of himself and Ben all those years ago, _What is he missing?_

The humming within his head increasing in volume, silken wings beating wildly in desperate caution, he's reminded of years ago, a training course, one which became a requirement eventually, but remained then, during the early years marking his active service, new aged enough to be considered experimental. At the time, he'd filed 'experimental' right along side the file coded 'bullshit,' but his attendance was required, and so off he went. And, admittedly, being a rather cocky sort, he was content to appear as though he were listening, while his mind drifted off on all manner of alternative subjects, and though he couldn't remember now, if he had been told those thoughts revolved around a firm pair of thighs, he would not have possessed the decency to either blush or be surprised. Frustrated, pouring another measure, he drummed his fingers amongst the files wondering why in the bloody hell he'd thought to remember that?

Squinting into the middle space, that area wherein the world's totality of secrets lay, it came to him, his head tilting just to the left, the humming becoming almost violent in pitch, as he correctly identified it now, the cacophony inside him, the tuning fork by which to fix his direction, harmonizing as he passed closer. The course instructor, _what was his name? Never-mind, doesn't matter._ He had long hair, he remembered that; Long hair, some new age, EST guru; He had placed a picture on a screen, an over head screen, _Jesus, time fucking flies_, a face appearing on the wall, covering it in total behind him.

He _was_ thinking about a woman, he remembers now, Diane...Dana.._._fuck, what was her name? _Why, fancy you'll call her, do you? Have another go, _came the sarcastic, controlled reply from within. And then he remembers that she did have a spectacular set of legs, dancer, _yes, a dancer,_ and...yes, all thoughts of...of..._shit,_ whats-her-name with the legs evaporated as the sensitive, ponytailed guru placed a piece of paper over one side of the screen, blocking one half of the man's face from view, announcing you can read a face, the motivations of a person, by looking at both sides of their face separately.

Mind firing, rapid, straining to keep up, he's not surprised to find himself standing now, leaning over his desk, rifling the pictures he'd thought to print, and his feeling of euphoria, that itch that always started in his groin when he was close, on the scent and close enough to grab, was ticking reassuringly. _Oh no, my boy, you are so not past it, far from it, mate_. He hears himself say it, echoing off the walls of his office, and finds he, at that moment, barely able to contain his urge to throw his arms up in victory.

It takes a minute before the enormity of what he has uncovered hits him full force, so enamored of his ability to out think her, to fetter out what she had wanted kept hidden, to prove to himself, if not her, that he still had it, whatever _it_ was, the entire fucking collection of _its_ available in the known universe, he had all of them in spades, and don't ever question it.

_Shit._

_Oh, Ruth._

He could place it, now, that memory which began scratching its way to the surface when his name had first been spoken hours ago unfolding within him, the details becoming sharper, the story's illustration becoming flush, knew then the unspoken hows and whys of its crystalizing relevance to their immediate peril. Her mother, Elizabeth had remarried, that was it. The memory, floating, developing, the surface hazy; _Christ_, _so long ago_. Brows furrowed with effort, his eyes unfocused as he follows the trail, the bread crumbs filed in memory.

He had been active then, the past's equivalent to Adam, or Tom, so long ago. _Yes_, it was shortly after Jane had begun divorce proceedings, and he was forever being cautioned to slow down, measure risk; But he'd needed the rush, was drawn to it, incautious, heedless, needing to feel something other than shame, failure.

His mouth drops open, imperceptibly, as his memories rapidly launch forward, interconnected images filling the grey spaces with vibrant colors beyond his will to control. _Ruth_. He had known Ruth. Well, not known her; No, not exactly. Not in the sense of having been introduced formally to someone, she had been a child, someone's child; But he had known of her, by association, a stretch, but still more true than false. Her father, _her father_, and now he sees himself in his mind's eye, vibrantly young, magnetic, dangerously seductive, sitting within the darkness of a long forgotten grid from years ago, another lifetime, trolling the available information, the death notice, the funeral services; He remembers investigating her father's death, and his face floats to the surface, his blue eyes, so like hers. _His bird, his little bird,_ he'd called her.

He had spoken of her often, this bird named Ruth, and he thinks it simple presently to believe then they had been introduced in a way, so long ago, his blood staining the wooden crates as her father worked to save him. He spoke affectionately, openly, the kinds of details you offer up to distract someone suffering under the knife with little, if any, anesthetic. The kinds of things his mind was perfectly suited to record and file, studiously adept, though he is stunned at the sudden realization he had bothered at all.

Cancer, it was, a particularly pernicious strain, if he remembers correctly. He had liked him, that gifted doctor with the soft voice and gentle hands, and he looks to Ruth now as he recognizes the kinship of his keen intellect reflected in her. He had not liked many of those entrusted with the task of saving agents from fatal injury, but he had grown to like, even trust, Daniel Evershed. After his passing, he had, in some exercise of misplaced absolution he'd guess now, checked in on her progress, periodically as time and events had allowed, though he'd no way to predict then she would eventually become tied to him as she had now.

_No_, that wasn't entirely true. Not really, was it? Not when you brush the cobwebs away and stand inches from the mirror. The grainy photographic images of her, captured as her face broke into a smile, the sun full on her face. He had only searched her out once; _Well, twice, _he chastises inwardly, _since we're all being honest now._ It was the second occurrence that shook him, the one where he almost didn't spot her because she had inexplicably cut off all of her hair. He recalled the first time he'd sought her out, finding then, her hair a glossy dark cascade falling to her waist, soft waves catching the sunlight. It was the type of mane that beckoned, one couldn't help but yearn to curl amidst the softness, inhaling the trace fragrance of shampoo, laying it across your pillow so that it caressed your face as you slept.

He had sat there, at a distance years ago, it felt like ages to him now, hearing the words his mother had spoken again, as clear to him then as if he should look up and find her serene smile in the review mirror; _Once, when I was young, I lost something I loved very much. I'd little means to express that grief, but for me, it was enough to start by cutting off all of my hair. Watch for it, love, for it is the surest admission of grief I can describe for you. _His eye traced the line of Ruth's exposed neck, her newly shorn hair uneven, asymmetrical, self inflicted he had guessed, breath catching in his throat as she turned her face in the direction he was hidden. Rushing, caught unawares, his thoughts suddenly, unaccountably, had turned to Jane, his conscience reaching for something he'd desired to keep buried.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**12 November 2005; 1:12AM:**

_Jane_.

Her hair had been what had first drawn him to Jane, luminescent and thick, he had nestled contentedly within those silken strands, threading it between his fingers more times than he could count. Even after their marriage went pear shaped, she would not deny him his custom of sleeping against the length of it fanning behind her. _But she took even that away,_ came the whisper, _didn't she?_ He remembered finding Jane sat on the floor of their en suite, alone, her eyes swollen, filled with tears, the luminous blonde cascade falling past her shoulders gone, the golden blanket it formed covering the floor, scissors gleaming in her limp, right hand; And he, stinking of some woman whose name he hadn't bothered to remember thirty minutes absent her naked form, angry at her for slicing away what he had desperately treasured. She had, in sheering it clean away, taken that pleasure from him, that feeling of contentment, calm serenity, worse still, she knew how he cherished it, how much he needed that comfort, and he to his shame could not find it within himself to forgive her, then, and to some extent, now.

His mother had not elaborated on what she did subsequent, though neither did he ask, too young to understand the hideousness which _subsequent_ suggested, unaware that his own future would chose to illustrate what his adolescent mind was ill prepared to comprehend. Still, he saw it then, with Jane, the scissors trembling as she sobbed, and later with Ruth, sitting alone, isolated from the crowds that surrounded her, what his mother had quietly counseled him to look for, and wondered who had wounded her so deeply that she would deliberately destroy something so effortlessly beautiful as her hair.

He needn't have bothered to wonder with Jane, the answer writ bold across his conscience. He was her wound, he was her pain, he was the poison that drove her to self destruction. He had watched as _subsequent_ began to define itself, the distinct real time illustrations, horrifyingly feral, watched as his vivacious young wife, mother of his children, began to slowly self destruct, bouts of depression so immobilizing she had begun cutting herself, bleeding herself repeatedly in an effort to feel, and he came to realize the blanketed floor had marked the beginning of the slide, the ride, the _subsequent_, punctuated by extremes of artificial, brittle happiness and demoralizing catatonic misery. And he had done nothing, incapable in his vanity, in his self absorption, unwilling to shoulder the blame openly, internally his failures fueled his anger, his resentment towards her, driving him further into recklessness, his presence within their home merely a stop gap between the adrenaline and excitement he craved.

It was the last time he had sought Ruth out, though not the last time he had thought of her, his desire to know who had hurt her waring with the necessity of maintaining distance. In truth, he loathed the idea of watching as she descended the same rabbit hole that had taken Jane. _How had he forgotten this?_ _ How had he forgotten her?_ Her face unsmiling from within her security file, and his eyes had widened in recognition, her name, one in a number of applicants selected by Tom for possible secondment, her file detailed then as he examined its contents, curious about the passage of time between, and yet still, _still_ he had been able to lie to himself, had been able to convince himself he'd nothing but objective intentions.

Oh, yes, he had elected to interview her for a secondment to Five, deliberately sidelining Tom in the exercise; Orchestrating, or he would lead himself to believe, without conscious thought, and he had found himself well and truly charmed by her from the start, her physical presence a balm of sorts, confusing and disquieting him, just the same. Funny that he had not thought of it until this moment, the parallel nature of them, but blown was blown, no sense in fabricating fictions now. No sense is continuing to fuel those he had already tried to hide from himself. Isn't that exactly what this entire charade was about? One cannot hide, and your sins will out in the end, and you the fool thinking you knew better.

Untimely, that. Of all the nows littering his life, that it would be_ this_ now, here, today, that he would find himself faced with the truth hidden behind recollected lies told to himself so many years ago, those self manufactured fallacies he had buried so deep that he'd thought to have forgotten they had been real, the hubris of fabrications thought genuine.

If he was honest, he could not deny he had intended to recruit her; Had, in those moments of opiate induced interactions with her father, already been charmed by her, or rather, the idea of her, the reality as presented by a devoted father, foreign to him, yet one he paled against in the comparison. _My little bird, she is_, and in his opiate laden state the shame for having never thought to gift Catherine with a name, a term of endearment special only to them, a moniker which said _you are of me, and I love you with everything I am _ate at him, bleeding in time with his physical wounds. Daniel Evershed had become, in some fantastically odd sense not subject to frequency of interaction, the barometer by which to measure his own failings as a father, as though he were in need of additional measurements and comparisons in which his shortcomings were egregiously magnified.

His stomach turning slightly sour, realization a sudden gut punch, tasting the implication he had envied the man to such a degree that he co-opted his only daughter years later, paling then in magnitude, a heartbeat later, to the genuine conclusion he had desired to seduce her, as well. Yet in his heart he knew himself to be capable of such a vile act, knew that somewhere in the recesses of memory, there was a moment in time, a pinprick hidden, where he had decided that she was the reward he selfishly yearned for, all else designed specifically to achieve that goal, and she less a person in the equation than a trophy to be displayed, to meditate on when the insecurities came knocking, demanding entrance.

Which, he thinks to himself, turning it around in his mind, would have been acceptable on its face, or at least, conducive to who he understood himself to be, manipulative, selfish, charismatic to a fault, dangerous to those unaware. And were she to have accepted him as thus, he imagines he wouldn't be wasting what precious little time Angela afforded them with useless and melancholic delving of circumstance, both past and present, leading them to this moment. He would have had her, and discarded her, were it not for those circumstances that told him he knew her, saw her as she saw him, glimpses shinning to each from beneath their facades, her touch familiar, her eyes a touchstone.

He stared at the picture in front of him, her visage hidden under his scrap paper, his scratched notes covering the lines, and much the same way as in that course years before, he saw the other half, the story that Haigh told, silently, all these years later. He had been in love with her, the evidence was plain and present in the way he looked at her, and when he placed each photograph before him, delicately covering Ruth's smiling face, it served only to detail and make flush that love. He could hardly have blamed him, envious of the moments they had obviously shared.

He knew what he had to do, had no choice, or so he told himself. He found the resentment he felt for Jane transcending the boundaries of his past, delicate tendrils reaching from that dark place within him, and wrapping, as would a lover, the vision of Ruth in his heart, and knew it as necessity. He could hear the ghosts within him begin to rustle, called awake with every heartbeat, every word he fashioned to himself as _must do, no choice, sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice_, and the void smiled for knowing him better than he knew himself.

He'd registered almost immediately she did not look at him when he'd hidden Haigh's face beneath the paper. In truth, there wasn't one photograph among them in which she had been captured looking towards him at all. He counted, in total, four wherein she was looking into the distance, two which captured her gazing at the path in front of her, eyes cast downwards, and lastly, one in which her eyes closed against the laugh that shook her body, her grin cast towards the sun. All of them, however, captured Haigh as he beheld her.

The effect, the technique he'd thought to be a waste of time, _ah hubris_, had revealed her story, her half which she had secreted away. While her feelings on the matter remained, even subject to his considerable inspection, ambiguous, what was in little doubt was Haigh's continued adoration of her. He had been in love with her, and while she clearly cared for him, her visage lacked the similar outright adoration present in his. All of his, in truth. He thinks that she has always had a skittish nature. Or perhaps, this something that formed the meat of their tumor merely accentuated what had always been.

Loathe as he was to peel back this skin, to manipulate her into reliving, by association, this period of her life she had expertly attempted to hide, he knew he had, at hand, no other equally viable option. Fortunate, that, and maybe his reservoir of luck hadn't yet been extinguished, the details he'd spent the past many hours searching for, forced from her lips, the secret he'd followed, only partially revealed, her resultant task in duty already determined, holding the promise of those details left hidden, his need to know at rest. Discomforting his thought that it wasn't solely his sense of duty, but also his duplicitous nature which demanded he manipulate Ruth to suit his ends, fashion her a uniquely suited weapon, his curiosity's satisfaction becoming equal to the safety of the greater whole, all innocents and unaware of the perilousness of their safety.

Collecting the documents spread about his desktop, he made every attempt to avoid ruminating on what he had found, but like that curious cat, he failed in every attempt to blind himself against what he had seen, strike himself ignorant to what he now knew, and he felt his dream of her die ever so slightly inside him, his ever present duty dictating the terms of fatality. He would sacrifice her. He knew it, and the knowing it, the conceiving of it was only slightly less a death, than the death he knew awaited him the moment he required she act, ordered her, if needs be, for the greater good.

This was not some mercenary's daughter, innocently used as a pawn to ensure a favorable end, though, on balance, not so very different a situation, either. She could forgive that, indeed, he knew she had forgiven it, her reason allowing her to see the truth of necessity, though he did not imagine it extended to forgetting. She could forgive Tom, Zoe, and Danny, even Sam, never once using the memory of them, his haphazardly admitted affection for them all confessed to her alone, as she could have, to manipulate him, to confound him and place him in the midst of cross purposes.

In effect, there wasn't a single situation imaginable to him in which he would anticipate she would chose to, so willingly as himself, sacrifice anything or anyone to achieve her ends; That she would even conceive of such a path rather than be forced onto it, pushed from behind, stumbling and reluctant, was ridiculous in the extreme, and in the wake of this thought he understood her need to keep secrets perhaps might not simply be an attempt to protect herself, but a courageous risk undertaken to protect another as well. But she will not forgive him this, neither will she forget.

As he drains the last of the contents of his glass, readying himself for another, he pauses, the bottle tilted, it's contents kissing the rim, and he can feel the anger starting to burn deep in his abdomen, clenching his jaws, his hand tightening its grip on the bottle, his breathing becoming shallow, audible in the silence. He allows it to grow, because this, _this,_ is familiar, he knows what this is, embracing its odd comfort as a lifeline. _This_ is the moment when he rationalizes his actions before he's moved to act, knowing what he will do. And the anger, burning and stoking itself into a fury within him is necessary, as necessary as oxygen is to flame, the moment illustrating his eternity of appropriate solitude, searing him should he dare otherwise. _This_ is what he did when he caressed a proffered breast not belonging to his wife, justifying it by telling himself she knew what he was, he'd tried to hide it, tried not to hurt her, and she just had to know, didn't she? Just had to keep looking until that cat was well and truly dead. Her fault, he told himself. If she had left well enough alone...

Taking the contents in one go, he concentrates on the burn as the liquid slides its way along his throat, burning where he had bitten down, deliberately avoiding all thoughts alined with the very real truth that whispered quietly,_ Ruth had not looked, and Ruth had left well enough alone_, the red soaked wing lifting once, a whisper against a roar, and no matter how much he justified and rationalized to himself, that fact remained unalterable, static in this current chaotic circumstance.

She had not courted this, and neither had Jane, in truth, because she hadn't really had cause to. He had not made much of an effort to hide the philanderer he had become. _You couldn't possibly understand,_ a rash impulse, screamed to push Jane further away, as though there was some acceptable explanation for being who and what he was, his anger at her for glimpsing behind the curtain of secrets he held fueling the ever growing distance forming between them. And it was with no small amount of frustration now that he realized his thoughts of Ruth were often accompanied by thoughts of Jane, and the frequency of such an occurrence left him reaching, again, for another belt from the half empty bottle before him.

Obscene that. His subconscious intertwining the two, their faces merging, and separating, merging again, reflecting both his hopes and failures, his very person the poison that kills everything thrush and beautiful, their proximity, both past and present, destined for pain, and he having bled them dry. And just like that the anger rose again, suffusing him in a hot rush, pushing the guilt and the ever present self recriminations to the periphery, replaced by the demons that taunted and teased the corners of his mind, disrupted his sleep, drove his cravings for peace and solitude to the breaking point, too far from reach as to rend the effort to fight a waste.

She had tried to hide it, her affection for Haigh, hadn't she? She had tried to hide it, secret it away, stealthy and clever, his Ruth, but he had sounded her out, had rustled the stalks and found the serpent hiding within its fronds, and it was easy, then, to blame her. Effortless now to convince himself, as he had with Jane, that Ruth knew what he was, and you can't fault a scorpion for its sting. Egregiously simplistic, in fact, while his anger curls forward, cresting the peak, nourishing the impending tumult, accelerating, thunderous this beautiful annihilation hardwired within him; _No_, she can't fault him for acting as designed from the moment of conception, the intricacies of Mr. Shadow present even then, safe and warm in his mother's womb, his venomous tail nestled against his fetal chest.

It was the stealth, the deliberate elimination of history, that he used now to convince himself that she was not what he had believed. He had not seen her, nor had he been seen, despite the whisper reverberating, _lies, lies_, a frail, blood tipped wing still, and he tossed back another two fingers, reveling in the submission it bought, the whisper quieting to a low thrum, easily ignored. Lies, lies, so many lies and all for a good cause, all for the greater good, all hollow and false, and yet he knew, knew in his soul, he would sacrifice her because he had been asked to, and all else fell to fantasy and whim and foolish musings of an overactive imagination draped in solitude and loneliness.

The resultant sense of desperation made his skin crawl. He still needed her, that was the thing. And he would need her even after he offered her up as sacrifice. More troublesome the certainty he would need to see himself, the man underneath spy in her eyes and that, _that_ is what will be lost. He thinks it very like the moments Haigh had been captured gazing at her, and wonders if she had ever needed to see herself in his eyes, needed to see herself reflected in adoration, deciding it rather the reason she hadn't been caught, deciding that her decision to hide within the sanctuary she had formed, an internal playground, had been many years in the making, its design continuing even now. Not so different then to his younger self, his vision of himself through her eyes failing to prove seductive enough to disregard the obscenity he would soon force upon her. Him. Mr. Shadow, undefined, alone, skirting the periphery, waiting to strike.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**12 November 2005; 3:23 AM:**

_"__There is something you could tell her...isn't there, Ruth?" _

_"__No."_

Her face had dissolved from cautious relief, the curve of her mouth, the barest tickle of a smile, vanishing completely behind a stone visage, impenetrable as a finely carved statue, shock and betrayal emanating from her widened eyes, her refusal, spoken with an edge sharp enough to slice a strand of hair, the only obvious indication of her internal struggle.

As he watched her face, eyes locked together in silent defiance of one another, he'd wondered, briefly, if she'd ever considered, for a single second, that a man who could be thought capable of designing and executing the assassination of a Royal figure, how then, could she be shocked that he would likely not balk at throwing her on the pyre just as recklessly to save himself? True, they had tragically predicted the ways and means of Diana's death, it was also equally true not a single member had played an actionable part beyond theoretical, which did little to mitigate his ready ability to set her as sacrificial lamb.

But she _had_ believed, hadn't she? In part, in some measure, the relief decorating her face briefly had sworn it as fact, his heart breaking and demanding the pyre simultaneously, a just punishment for an excruciatingly unavoidable betrayal.

He had schooled his face for betrayal, impassivity hiding his inner conflicts; Had softened his tone to that of a caressing purr, a stark contrast to the clipped tones when voicing Haigh's name, his confession of investigating psychiatric evaluations less a confession in spoken word, than verbal weapon. He watched her flinch from him, and counted it both a victory and failure, his duplicitous heart demanding both.

_"__Ruth-"_

He rather resented Adam's presence in that moment, one wherein he chose the path well worn, manipulating her, playing her while gathering the wood, his attempts to protect her with alternatives valiant, highlighting nothing so much as his own willingness to tie her to the deadened trunk and await the lick of flame. He resented most supremely the fact that Adam could bear witness, if he were asked, undoubted, his presence allowing him the details of the rope, and the width of the trunk she was girded to, of her precious unwillingness and his indifference as he tied her hands while looking her straight in the eye.

It was no small thing that Adam wouldn't look him in the eye, after he broke her, instead meditating on some spot lain before him, his breathing measured and cautious. No small thing at all. Yet, neither did he wish to be seen, nor did he wish to look into his eyes, a lighter shade of blue than hers, yet close enough to fortify his collusion with Ruth against him, grasping as he was any straw which would justify his choice, though weak and laughably metaphysical. _You're blown, mate._

Perhaps he would, when this was all over, attempt to explain his course, detail the hows and whys, gage the depth of how badly he had broken them, the three of them, professionally and individually. Though Adam had not looked at him, he understood there had been a judgement decided, regardless. They, Adam and he, had nurtured her latent abilities, had believed her more innately skilled, had tested their theory carefully, probing the boundaries and limits, but, in all, they had endeavored mutually, as a unit. The two had then become three almost before either of them had thought to consider it a probable, likely outcome, though he himself could claim harbored hopes to that effect. They had, through loss, conflict, pain and successes over time, become a trio.

And now? _Now. _Irretrievably different, distinctive between now and that moment marking a single heartbeat ago, as he, without any consultation, lacking all outward palpable regard, had effectively, callously cradled her to him before throwing her to the wolf that waited just beyond, teeth bared, leaving her to scrape from within herself their collective salvation. He had, with Adam bearing broken witness, ordered her to cut from within herself the catalyst, the festering tumor they shared, and feed it to another, and he could not, in all his years which still lay before him, imagine any probability where their eyes would not shy away, as he sought them, as he stared, so rich and obvious was his latent pestilence.

She'd not spoken another word to him, her eyes becoming, as he watched, distant, seeing the far away and not him still sat before her. She drew in two deep breaths, closing her eyes with the second, and he'd thought, sadly, that she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid his eyes on, the thought erupting unbidden, forcing him to look first down, then away. She had turned from him, and though he did not witness it, he rather felt Adam shifting quickly to glance at her, heard the telltale movements of someone reaching to touch another as she passed from them, his desire to protect her telegraphed with the connection, maybe, his face preemptively taking the shine of regret and resignation as he turned again to meet his eye, a certainty.

_"__Jesus, Harry-"_

With those two words, simple in their efficient accusation, he allowed himself to feel the breadth of his exhaustion, laying waste to the anticipation, the excitement hidden in the twist of a mind game's penultimate denouement, that moment when his innocence was established by undeniable fact, an elaborate wind up begun infinite hours ago, or so it seemed in his current fatigue, and knew it for nothing more than a juvenile nod to vanity, melting away, carrying his questionable state of innocence beyond his reach.

It was only later, as he placed the printed copy of her smile in the sunlight for safe keeping within his office safe, that he'd noticed the humming which had thrummed habitually throughout the ordeal had gone silent, and in his mind he pictured ephemeral wings, soft as velvet, imagined what they would feel like against his cheek, his vision becoming more tactile than fantasy, the supple texture catching the early morning beard of his face, pulling it away to examine it as it lay stationary in his palm.

He was not surprised to see their delicate surface spotted with red.


	13. Chap13: The Owl Carved of Wood

**A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed. It seems paltry to say it is appreciated, but know that it is the act of reviewing which provides, for me at least, a substantial enough reason and requisite motivation to continue, thus not paltry in any sense of the word. Here's me waving to the folks living in/on (?) The Isle of Man, a place I shamefully had to 'googlize' to acquire any knowledge of, and which again makes me amazed at the power of what my grandmother calls 'The Interwebs.' This chapter is entirely Malcolm's POV, and I hope you enjoy as I work my way towards the infamous 'corridor scene.'**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

"_Do you really want to be helpless,_

_With your hands behind your back?_

_Waiting idle for a blessing,_

_Or until complete collapse?_

_Will you swoop down,_

_And catch another mouse;_

_Oh won't you swoop down,_

_To catch another mouse;_

_Why don't you swoop down,_

_To catch another mouse_

_For me?"_

-The Deer Hunter, "Owls"

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

If anyone had asked, he'd readily admit having Colin otherwise occupied was to his advantage presently. Bent to his task, each had recognized it for an act of empty distraction, that activity which kept someone occupied, rather like the child sat before the telly allowing the adults to talk in an outer room uninterrupted. Sat there, body contorted into a cross-legged position Malcolm knew himself far to advanced in years to entertain attempting, Colin chipped halfheartedly away at a vent which would afford little chance of escape, the methodical _tap, tap, tap_ merging with the queer silence characteristic to lock down. The exercise proved doubly fortunate as it afforded Malcolm the distraction necessary to examine the cumulative Intel two ghosting programs currently tracing specific cybernetic footsteps had culled.

He'd spent several hours dedicated to the gathered details streaming ceaselessly from the program initiated first, in the early hours not long after he'd arrived on the Grid. The second program was producing similar results, the cyber pages unfolding rapidly, his eyes scanning as they formed. _Interesting. _Each of them had been furiously delving the other, and at a guess, he imagined neither any wiser in their ministrations. At a loss for obvious explanation, he began collating those details which provided similar themes, attempting, covertly, to ascertain those same conclusions sought by each individually.

She had been preoccupied from the moment she had arrived. At once there at her desk, carelessly victimizing the end of her pen between her teeth, and then gone, back down to archives and Registry, her movements tracked by the buildings many cameras, and he knew she hadn't even bothered to try to hide her whereabouts so absolute was her concentration. Her movements, he thought, were reminiscent of a hummingbird; Flitting quickly from here to there, hovering momentarily hushed above some new piece of Intel, and then gone, her movements zigzagging wildly, capturing another, his eyes attempting to keep pace, landing on her mere moments before she flitted off anew, and he scenting the chase, the trail she left behind a barely visible vapor of color.

Her mind had been elsewhere throughout the day, and the customary break they shared mid morning came and went without her appearing on the threshold of the tech suite, tea in hand, the smell of Earl Grey wafting about her as she plopped herself into a vacant swivel, asking _give me one_ in reference to the crossword they habitually worked through together; Or, sometimes, lines of verse, painstakingly obscure, each attempting to stump the other for origin and author. She was exceedingly good at the later, her voluminous mind providing an admirable number of correct answers, and, to his chagrin, a few quotes he found himself utterly unable to identify. That mid-morning's semi-impromptu twenty questions having come and gone, he found he rather missed the contribution to his sense of normalcy it had become. That brief moment within one's day where they felt, inexplicably, tied to the race of man, their simplicities and mundane concerns shared, that bit of longed for pedestrian, everyday, innocuous 'normal' taken for granted by everyone he didn't know, and to which his entitlement did not extend.

It was a comfortable routine between them, one which he had grown to treasure quite despite himself, his general policy of remaining just a bit removed from those who walked within the halls of Thames cautiously disregarded as his affection for her increased. He had, as had they all, lost those he had thought to allow into his heart, his head. Having touched that flame countless times before, he was loathe to allow another to ignite.

She had a way, however, and he found he was left defenseless in the wake of her smile, her unassuming charm. After all, he reminded himself often when the urge to remain aloof struck, She, like Colin and himself, was a desk agent, thus it became almost effortless to reassure himself the statistical data was in all their favor, the likelihood that any of the three would be cut down while in the field minimized, as close to extinct as likely to get. They delighted him in much the way siblings would delight; Or, rather, what he assumed would be the case. Being an only child of an only child, he had little formative experience but for observational in nature, yet he derived such comfort from the two, if he were granted that rare opportunity to chose, he'd select both as makeshift family, and call himself lucky.

The appointed rendezvous having come and gone, he'd decided to activate a ghosting program he had installed on all the computers within the grid, one which would allow him greater access into what had her so preoccupied as there was little doubt she had uncovered something for which she had been thoroughly distracted. If he were to assign a description befitting her demeanor, she gave every impression of being shaken in some way which suggested an involuntary paradigm shift, an assault which weakened her foundations, the distress she felt becoming more obvious the more he observed her. Alarmed, with just the barest hint of desperation coloring her face, he watched her and found himself quite unable to continue as an observer, needing to, be it an act of chivalry or sibling benevolence, soothe her in some fashion or another.

It was then he remembered the program installed some months ago, and sent a silent thank you to the heavens above that the deep seated, paranoid nature of their given profession did not extend to the conclusion every spook did not need to be watched. In fact, if history was anything to go by, it rather demanded that the spooks spook the spooks with as much voracity and microscopic detail as those they would hope to thwart. Certainly, their immediate circumstances did nothing short of highlighting their collective, justifiable compulsion to question unusual occurrences, eschewing the easy conclusions in favor of sounding the deeper, malicious intents and motivations. Theirs was a world made of conditional trust and hushed suspicions breeding those psychological pitfalls which substantiated their collective _otherness. _Their specific positioning within the human race separate for lack of genuine communion, a shared sense of blissfully unaware, occupying that rare dimension inhabited by those who are both friend and foe. 

_Don't let me get too suicidal_.

She had offered the caution flippantly, a warning issued as afterthought, in effect, hardly worth mentioning. It was the incongruity that had niggled, and as he toiled, he found himself meditating the statement, the refrain repeating within his head, the tone and inflection amplifying his unease. Superficially, his familiarity with the contemplative aspects of existence, the psychological boxes each individual finds themselves bound within, the statement itself suggested that inconsistency akin to admitted suicidal tendencies, once given voice, were less a reflection of truth than the genuine article. Simply put, he concurred with the overriding theory that those who were suicidal rarely announce there intention, preferring instead to _be_ suicidal, entrusting others with the realization simultaneous to the discovery of their deadened corpse. Suicidal people commit suicide, those who are not, merely threaten, as had Angela, and thus to his interpretation, he thought the exercise a blind. Intricate, yes, but deliberately distracting in a manner which spoke, _No, not here. Look elsewhere. _

Given the numerous mentions of Peter Haigh, the circumstances of his death crystalizing rather easily in his consciousness at the mention of his name, he did not question Angela's desire to die. Quite the contrary, he understood she was awash in a churning ocean of grief, regret, and no small amount of disillusion. _Yet_, he could not shake himself of the intuition her questionable grasp on reality expressed openly only scratched the surface, obsequious in the extreme, a tell suggesting a vast expanse of unknowables at play beneath the surface of her emotional cocktail.

He had experienced the nature of suicide first hand. Knew the signs, the steps a person takes to rid themselves of anything which would tie them to this earthly plane. Shortly after his father had died he had watched as his mother began the careful steps of defenestration, discarding her emotional well being and physical possessions with equal determination. He had known in his heart her pain was genuine, her grief all encompassing, mired in the quicksand of mortality, she had not wanted to continue in his father's absence. While he had gone to extremes to ensure she was supervised in his absence, he can remember each day brought with it the acute fear that he would find her cold, having swallowed some toxin, or lain in a pool of her own blood, the water turned cold in her bath.

She had become a faceless ticking bomb which forfeited little indication of diminishing seconds, each moment passing proving the following worse for the indifferent uncertainty. It could have been any day, or the next, or not at all. She never once sat sipping tea and stated, _Malcolm, love, I believe today is the day it shall all mercifully end. _It was the nature of his understanding the self depreciations inherent to suicidal tendencies, the catatonic silences and blank stares, which had allowed him, to his regret, to consider the viability of Clive McTaggart coming toes up by his own hand, though he presently knows subsequent facts had proved entirely contrary, extravagantly so. Still, Clive, like his mother, had never threatened, and the absence of such allowed a potential suicide believable vitality. Not so with Angela. The fact she'd emphasized her longing belied, paradoxically, her genuine ability to act, the last delivered in what he felt a well rehearsed exit line scripted for the stage, whispering to him of artifice and orchestration, leaving him curiously short on both sympathy and fear.

It was indeed a strangely unfamiliar state of mind which he found himself in, the potential destruction at hand very real, yet the threat of use somehow compromised, forming the _less than_ in the overall equation. The surreal nature of it all found him shaking his head in wonder more often than not.

_There are more things in heaven and earth,_

_Than are dreamt of in your philosophy_.

The quote, a refrain which frequently danced the fringes of his consciousness when faced with troubling incongruities, his cerebral task of imposing logic to chaos his often called upon skill, acted as a healing and instructive instrument which granted opportunity to reconcile the inconsistent and malignant nature of man, the tool he enlisted to both aid and guard his humanity, his soul.

He'd often reflected the words mirrored the tragedy that was their profession, the allusion to shadows, things unknown, the mind a playground which could never be known to another entirely, just as it could never be known to oneself as an absolute. One cannot expect to know as much as can be known in this strange and dangerously beautiful world they share; The menacing threats continue to evolve, adopting another face, another ideology bursting violently from the wombs of those previous, new devils to dethrone, each extended moment evolving fluidly into the next, merging into the flowing grey, and who knew anything for a certainty anymore?

We used to know, or so we told ourselves, could identify this one as an enemy combatant, and that one an ally, and maybe he has become too jaded, too old, the ease of identification diminishing leaps and bounds in the years since then and now. Maybe. Because, he tells himself, isn't it our very nature, the innate nature of human beings to find themselves irretrievably intertwined, linked to the hubris of believing all that was known in every moment was all that needed to be known?_ Hubris_, and a wall scared with the names of those who found the truth was very different indeed.

He thinks of Angela, momentarily sees her as she was years before, alight and sure, and wonders if the price for hubris isn't singularly recognized as another name carved into a wall, but also with the soul shaking realization that _we_ are the enemy, wearing the white hat and invited inside, our smile of comfort and safety hiding the razor-like quality of our teeth. _Pernicious_, he thinks, shaking himself, finding the idea that Angela Wells could break so spectacularly a bit of an unwanted paradigm shift within himself, the texture of it within his mind coarse and sharp.

He thinks it a forgone conclusion that those walking the paths of espionage share among them a higher portion of psychic damage intrinsic to their hardwired identities. Their capacity for being aware of such, that limited sense of personal actualization forming unconsciously, they are at once set apart from the masses, yet it is the recognition, the distance defining their alternate plane illustrated by damage, which allows them to serve, to fulfill their appointed duty. A necessity which allows opportunity to mitigate the greater threats to the masses, while blithely coddling the damage within themselves. The illusion of self-help, an effective remedy, the _I can't be that bad, I've just prevented a thermobaric bomb from detonating_ manner of self-delusion disguised as sound mind and compromised motivations.

It reminded him of a conversation he'd had with Ruth, not long after Tom's decommissioning, when she had been, for a time, withdrawn and uncharacteristically dimmed, wherein she gave voice to what he had silently concluded though never shared openly with anyone. It had been during one of their midmorning breaks, and she had, moments previous, accurately identified his quotation, plucked from the obscurity of Harper Lee's _To Kill a Mockingbird_, apropos of their attention having been drawn by the cousins for one reason or another on that particular day. On this day, however, she uncharacteristically had not offered any quotation in reply, American in origin or otherwise, but remained silent, her concentration fixed on some spot before her, fingers deft along the fanciful collection of charms decorating her neck.

_"__We're rather like Boo Radley, don't you find?" Her eyes never moved from point of concentration, and he understood the question as a step beyond their established comfort zone, into one whose boundaries had yet to be determined._

_"__In what way?"_

_"__We stay in the shadows, don't we? It's where we're most comfortable. We're-We're damaged, in a way, but our damage allows us to see what others remain blind to. It's as if, without our damage, we couldn't do what we do. Ours is the task of protection, and we step from the cover of shadows as needs must, be we never remain in the light, do we? We always return, and I wonder if we're not meant to remain that mystery clouded in darkness, a part yet apart, chasing the sun but never meant to live in it?"_

_"__Ruth, I-I don't know how to answer that. But, at a guess, I believe what you are describing is that feeling of being responsible for something, or, maybe, someone, while not really feeling a part of the whole? And, to that end, I would have to agree with you. Though I should add I've always preferred the Boo Radleys of the world. One can find kinship in the spark of shared damage, Ruth. You simply have to be open to the possibility."_

_"__Tom couldn't. He wanted the sun, Malcolm. We can't have both. We're not meant to."_

_"__Ahh, so this is about Tom. Listen, Tom he, well, he made his choice, and we all have every opportunity to make the same choice every day, really. And to continue on a theme, if Tom represents the Boo Radley in the scenario your imagining, then didn't he, like Boo, choose to reveal himself because he felt that kinship, even with his damage, didn't he chose to take that risk and see where it led? That fact rather shoots holes in your theory, now doesn't it? I mean, when you were done reading, did you mourn the loss of Boo, or did you celebrate his choosing to reveal who he really was, who he had always been?" _

She had looked at him, and he noted the shine in her eyes, knew the tears would not be allowed to fall, knew in his heart that she was, in her roundabout Ruth way, expressing grief for all of their losses, and the fear that loss would be all she was allowed, her portion meted out as substantially more by virtue of damage, or profession, or anything else, really, she gotten into her curious head. He remembered a time when he had weighed the same fears and concerns, questioned the viability of ever achieving 'normal,' and his heart broke a bit for her as he regarded her across his desk.

_"__Love is a very powerful motivator, regardless the form it takes, friendship, lovers, what have you. I always thought it a very powerful love which motivated Boo to become who he was meant to be, the children were simply the venue, just as Christine was Tom's venue."_

_ "__Ruth, love makes us do everything or nothing, and you, my dear girl, are not a person designed not to love. If I'm being honest, you provide a perfect example of the exact opposite. There is love and affection in everything you do. That is why you are so exceptionally good at what you do, apart from intellect, and why you are so very necessary to our little equation here. Well, for me, you are needed, who you are, I need that. With all of our collective damage, it is our strengths that make the whole, and what you bring cannot be provided by anyone else, just as what I bring, or Harry, or Adam. We are all damaged, perhaps more finely attuned to it even, but we have all found a way to use our detriments to the advantage of the greater whole, yes?"_

He had watched as she sighed deeply, returning her eyes to meditate the spot before her, and he very nearly confessed to having been in Tom's position years ago, and his residual fear and regret for having made, what he was almost certain of in hindsight, the wrong choice, as she had walked away from him, and slowly out of his life.

_"__Ruth? There will come a time, maybe many times, where you will have to decide to do something which will be painful, but an act of love just the same. No one knows when it will happen, and yet the absolute certainty that it will remains constant. I know what that is. It hurts to this day, the choices I've made. I'll not lie to you. It never really goes away. But I can tell you that because there was love, the weight that must be borne is...its...not without...means to...navigate."_

While loathe to admit her unexpected description carried some sense of truth as regards himself, he remains certain, even now, it is the scared and blackened soul the services called to, the agent lacking psychic injury proving an agent ill-equipped to navigate the shadowy areas rife with moral incontinence and spiritual bankruptcy. It was his psychic ills which, paradoxically, provided sustenance to prevent that in others, his willingness to suborn them, that instinct which Tom Quinn had relinquished, losing his reason to continue, gaining his right to a life not predicated on damage. He hoped he had gained that life, one unencumbered by anything more severe than the everyday concerns of an everyman, he hoped he was happy in the trade. It was just that _his_ damage, _his_ emotional incontinence was oddly comforting, allowed him to be a part of something, and the lack of it, the willing suspension of it would require a pound of flesh in the exchange of one life for another kind of life, set apart still, the habitual wallflower, left no one to watch.

In all, they had never spoken of Tom Quinn again between them, and as time passed she had reacquired what he liked to refer to as her shine, her particular Ruth vibrancy that he had grown to affectionately need. He celebrated silently her resiliency, even as he worried as time passed, and her innocence at having to make the same choice both he and Tom had made began to figure more prominently in her future, one he wasn't altogether certain she was cognizant of existing, despite their conversation regarding the very real specter of an American fictional character.

It was the absence that often highlighted a situation's significance, and he had come to find that this formed more a rule than exception when examining those they were tasked to watch and monitor regularly. Hadn't they been alerted more times than worth counting to a situation which demanded attention for the lack of something happening rather than the existence? The intelligence they sought, following vague trails in search of what was missing, formed the hallmark of what he suited his purposes to more often than not, though he had not the slightest talent as compared to Ruth, whose mind fathomed depths of direction he'd never have imagined, her ability to ferret the gems nestled within the detritus proving as close to infallible as he'd ever come across.

They made a formidable team, she and he, each balancing the other, she prone to intuitions and creatively eclectic pursuits, the hummingbird cross pollenating furiously, he of the clinical mechanics, the logic and objective interpretation of accessible fact, each coloring conclusions, their treasures combined to form the whole. Metaphysically speaking, he'd come to regard her as residing comfortably in the mists, floating harmoniously the ethereal sphere marking middle space, and he balancing her, his strengths more alined to the grounded planes of Nature and Science. And in this way, she hidden in the mists, and he in the woodwork, they were pleasantly simpatico.

In his private moments, he allowed himself those flights of intuitions and fancy, the poetry of words and imagination calling as a siren from a distant shore, balancing the habitual state of robotic acceptance marking his professional life, and the frequency of leisure time spent in exactly that repose had increased proportionately as he grew to depend on her constancy, allowing her to skirt areas within him he had permitted only once before to another. In that case, he had thrown the doors wide, exhilarated, arms outstretched never thinking to prepare himself for the thunderous sound they would make as they slammed closed, shaking his foundations with the force of affect.

She reminded him a bit of his Sarah, her beautiful empathy drawing from him the sensitive man he had carefully hidden beneath technical gadgetry and cyber speak. It was in the way she unconsciously wrung her hands, fidgeting when she was unsure, her quiet strength shining as she felt the bullet tear, taking Danny from them, _Adam, you must talk to me,_ hiding the delicate vulnerability he'd only half glimpsed with Fortescue. It was in her acrobatic mind, scalpel sharp, able to capture the obscure meaning within the thoughts he'd spoken aloud, almost to himself, quick to offer comment, excitedly playful as they bantered verse between them. And the crosswords, completed with a cuppa she'd prepared for him exactly as he'd have done. Familiar, yet endearingly unobtrusive.

In all, she made his heart ache for his Sarah, their similarities a reminder of a time before Colin, when he could look across and watch the changing screens light her face. His Sarah had hardened, and his Sarah had left the services, and the doors had shut resoundingly behind her. In the quiet of his darkened bedroom, he told himself these many years, at a certain angle, he could see light illuminating a crack along the doors' expansive length, and he often wondered, as he lay unable to sleep, how small he would have to become to squeeze through? How much of himself would he sacrifice now to have her back? Tom had given everything, bravely facing the unknown future before him. Bravery was not his own strong suit, but regarded rather a predator pacing the henhouse, and he in residence shaking with fear. Shameful, that, but there it was.

He didn't fault Ruth her inability to behave likewise as him, finding this bit of retained innocence, this latent individuality within her refreshing. His years and experience had taught him more than she'd had opportunity to learn, mercifully, and he rather feared the day which would mark the moment she began to harden, losing her imagination and creativity in the trade. He'd thought to have witnessed the beginnings when Danny had been taken from them, cruelly, suddenly, but she had rebounded admirably, if somewhat surprisingly, and he'd wondered for a time, as his eyes traced lines of poetry, if the increase in time spent with Harry weren't the root cause.

He had grown accustomed to melting into the woodwork, a wall flower from the start throughout his life, escaping the trap of deep seated resentments through the methodic cultivation of his mind, setting his future solidly as a youth without even being aware of it. Particularly well suited cerebrally, seen but not seen became his preferred status, forming his placement within the strata comprising the Grid, his acumen solicited frequently, yet his overall presence easily overlooked. Comfortable in position, the inherently, though not intentionally malicious disregard he bore habitually would have chaffed one more prone to egotistical ends than himself, more accustomed to alpha status, and the requisite pandering such nurtured. One existing so contrary to himself, lacking the carefully nurtured humility his Father had counseled a necessity to both a fruitful life and untarnished soul.

Someone like Harry.

They had spent more time together than what had been required by position, duty, and his viewpoint from the peripheral woodwork afforded him consistent opportunity to observe them interacting. Harry's tells, while historically difficult to identify, grew clearer as his affection for her began to gather steam. Yet, she had been harder, surprisingly so, the idea that she would prove more adept at secreting her tells, her own vaguely glimpsed affection for him infrequent, a completely, wildly unexpected circumstance no less delightful or entertaining to him for the covert discovery. Allowing, quite despite himself, the poetic to intrude briefly his professional existence, he had periodically found himself struck by the illusion they were engaged in some invisible choreography, their movements oddly syncopating despite physical distance, a delicate dance, unconscious and gracefully tragic. He had begun, in those moments of covert surveillance, to consider again those questions of love and affection and their place within their profession, how quietly they grew from nothing into something powerful, his fear that her moment to choose was fast approaching, the foreboding for such a circumstance settling prematurely somewhere in his bowels, yet remaining fascinated by musings of imaginary circumstances, speculative guesses regarding their potential end game.

In those moments too, he questioned his earlier suspicion of Harry's motives, his compelling belief that she needed his protection during, and subsequent, the Fortescue debacle, periodically wishing he could retract the veiled warning issued in the aftermath. Of course, there was always the slight chance Harry had reevaluated his actions, his intentions as he had quietly suggested. Except the idea itself provided him a questionable level of confidence, that being partially reassured versus absolutely convinced, not least for his inability to see Harry as a changeling, having known him for a man stubbornly dedicated to his ends, whatever the cost.

If he were to turn right this moment and question Colin his thoughts on the subject, he could alternatively, and with absolute certainty, predict his sardonic reply; _If by 'slight' you mean 'not bloody likely,'_ so well known was Harry's relentlessly intractable reputation. Undeniable, yet, from the vantage point of unseen, he had witnessed a subtle softening in his countenance when in her company, caught him unawares as his eyes followed her as she moved about the grid, the look on his face retracting to stone the moment he'd been found out, the pink suffusing a testament to his guilty weakness.

He was not unaware the efforts made to test her metal, the gradual placements that would find her active in the field, and she had, to her considerable credit, comported herself admirably. She proved surprisingly adept at playing a role, her gift with languages, accents and vernacular inflections allowing her to submerge herself effortlessly into a legend. Over time, he had begun to regard Harry, and then Adam, as the two headed Svengali to her Trilby, their mutually agreed upon course clear, yet their individual approach to such infinitely opposed.

Where Adam's appeared to make use of a familiarity born of youth and affection, his boyish smirk at the ready to charm her when she faltered, Harry's took on the hue just short of dominance, bullying her in a curiously physical way without actually establishing physical contact, and at a guess, he would conclude intrinsically sexual in nature. Where Adam's frenetic energy had him at once, bounding or lounging as if he were a merely a benevolent adolescent, Harry stalked her, pressing the advantage with a quick movement close to her ear, whispering, his hands placed in such a way as to allow his arms to cage her in at her desk, and just as quickly release her, gliding smooth as a glistening panther back to the confines of his office. Initially, he'd thought to have imagined the undercurrents at play between the three, but it was her face, caught in the moment's vulnerability, that had given truth to what he had thought fantasy.

She beamed, literally, the light emanating from her when Adam would push her to stretch her limits, encouraging her to affectionately let rip, and he'd little doubt she had won a portion of his heart in those minutes of insubordination where she became the only thing standing between himself and a fatal crossbow bolt. Surprising as that circumstance was, he rather found himself not altogether shocked that Ruth would find the way, use whatever came to hand to prevent harm to another, wielding nothing but a considerable sized tree branch and, to indulge in crass vernacular, brass balls matched in size.

He couldn't say she beamed when coached by Harry. Not that he had been able to observe. No, not entirely. Or, rather more correct to say not the same way as with Adam. He guessed it down to nature of affection, really. Adam's affections, while considerable and obvious, spoke of an unseen boundary, that imaginary line which establishes something on one side friendly, and the other sexual. It was the obviousness of it which rather defined the opposite, as with Harry. Adam's was of a theme reminiscent of sibling affiliations, the _have you met my sister_ manner of interaction, and by virtue of this, an astonishingly innocent gift within a world of malevolent ills. His pride in Ruth's successes shone from his eyes, illuminated with excitement and mischievously youthful wonder. He was, if Ruth's reciprocal behavior were the yardstick by which to gauge scale, safe, having that quality that becomes a haven in a storm.

Harry's, took the shape of a more seasoned player, experience counseling some distance and perfectly predictable, but his eyes gave him away, an exceedingly rare occurrence indeed. In them, he could not disguise the predatory bent of his innate nature, they glinted and as such, awarded a far portion of ownership regarding both her accomplishments and her person, a safe haven of a sort, but rather like that jump from the frying pan to fire in character.

Harry's was brazen in its overt lack of innocence, and like du Maurier's creation, he would, with clinical precision and consistent exactitude, _either fawn or bully, and could be grossly impertinent._ In effect, they each balanced the other perfectly, Adam and Harry, as relates Ruth, comprising a perfectly complete amalgam best suited to, for lack of a better description, court her on side.

It wasn't that Harry was intentionally evil; Or unintentionally, now that he considers it, palpating his own impressions drawn over these many months. Neither is it true that Ruth should be reduced to a caricature of Trilby in his estimation, as she has proven herself far less naive than originally contemplated, displaying a healthy level of cynicism and sardonic wit, her personality coming to the fore those numerous times they had gathered en masse at The George.

It occurs now that it was not unusual as those evenings wore on to find the three of them ensconced together in a darkened corner, laughing, Adam pantomiming frenetically some incident, Ruth's raucous amusement shaking her, the liquid in her glass sloshing about, and Harry, only slightly set apart, eyes keen, watching, the look decorating his face bearing some combination of benevolence, caution and mirth.

But Harry was a man's man, to coin a phrase, and a consummate spymaster, and while he simultaneously questioned his intentions concerning Ruth, he could not dismiss the idea that he would, if given opportunity, prove as capable of dominating, exploiting, and ultimately, seducing Ruth as was Svengali his beautiful songbird.

It seemed almost overnight that the Svengali wearing two faces became a triumvirate, both tucking Ruth firmly beneath their wings, though, in truth, it was as gradual in actuality as an ocean eroding shore when he allowed more than a cursory span of his attention. There had been a subtle gravitation towards one other, unspoken seat assignments in the conference room, and he observed one afternoon Adam deferring to Ruth the task of interacting with Harry, who, even spinning in the midst of full blown, furious frustration, tempered himself so as not to offend her.

Oddly, it was she who possessed a calming effect on Harry, Adam who never failed to assuage her concerns, and if Harry had any effect on either that could be pinpointed, he would conclude it one of dominance in the Alpha pole position. It evolved quite easily then, and the unspoken, unconscious acceptance that Ruth should be the one amongst them to suffer or soothe Harry in turns, found her sent into the lion's den with greater frequency previously believed unhealthy, though she never failed in the attempt, and he never, to his credit, swallowed her whole.

They became, quite naturally in amalgam, the perfect individual, each contributing to the greater whole the essence of themselves; Adam his youthful exuberance and keen adaptability, Harry his experience and wisdom, while Ruth fettered between them those necessary elements balancing emotional nurturing and flagrantly moral, objective honesty. It was a finely tuned instrument, the musical notes enhanced by each, the melody defining the nature of their Grid.

Disconcerting then to him, and perhaps he alone, the trio bore every hallmark of one existing earlier, though it did not include Harry a member. He was struck by the similarities of this new coalition to the old, Harry replacing Tom, Adam replacing Danny, leaving Ruth to replace Zoe and shivered for the prophecy foretold in the collaboration. It was not the first, nor likely last time history repeated itself, and he was loathe to envision any of the three meeting similar ends, despite the probabilities all but demanding it.

It had hurt more than he wanted to admit that Zoe had left them, the fact that he had quietly adored her from afar notwithstanding, and in those fleeting moments where he gave himself permission to remember her, it was the nature of her absence that formed the wound. It was very like the way one yearns for someone once close, the wound formed the moment distance becomes insurmountable, exacerbated for knowing they are alive, and yet forever beyond reach. The chance to see them again as painful as knowing you won't, because you can't, you are forbidden, and yet they breath without you, just as you do. It was very like his Sarah, as so many instances marking his existence unquestionably were.

And while he would never wish Zoe's absence to be defined by fatality, Danny's absence, while resulting in brief, crippling moments of outright despondency, was conveniently reconciled, an act of hideous efficiency down to the exact nature of it being fatal. And, if he were honest, because when the cards were dealt, Danny played his hand with an awe inspiring level of honor, integrity intact; He died standing amidst a burst of magnificent fireworks, not on his knees, obsequious and bowed, and for that he mourned that brilliant purity of heart as a loss to the world, and not simply himself.

And Tom. Well, one could hardly mourn a person who had done exactly what he himself had refused to do for love of a woman, and yet he found himself mourning him just the same, admiring and envious of his freedom in the same breath. In his sardonic moments, he'd rather been surprised Tom had been the first to shoot Harry over a woman, and he rather envied that as well. Well, not the shooting, but the audacity, certainly.

Of the three, only two remained alive; Well, occupying that plane where one finds themselves simultaneously alive to strangers, yet deceased to those they had known, and while still favorable odds, his mind continued to meditate this newest trio, found it unavoidable, if not a little macabre, to consider who among them would form the two, and then the one.

_The maths are not favorable_, his father liked to say, and as in most things, Malcolm found his predictions more accurate than not. And were it not an alternate triangle at work underlying the framework within this unexpected grid hijacking, he'd likely have not thought of maths and their relative favorability, the geometric triangular points both connecting and impaling as a consequence of creation. And like that triangle before them, and the triangles that littered history, he understood there would come a time when the three would be forced by circumstances, love, hate, ambition, any number of vices and weaknesses applied, to chose with whom to establish solidarity, requiring that one amongst them be cast out.

He thinks it possible Harry's suspension after the Kurvin incident was the catalyst which exploded and created the _them_ of Ruth and Harry, though he would not be shocked to be informed otherwise. Ruth and Adam had already established that easy camaraderie, so he couldn't say anyone thought it unusual that she would be the person he chose to rely on, if only for her advancing skills alone. If he were asked now how he knew that Harry had found a way to be near her, despite his exile, he wouldn't be able to answer with anything resembling logic or critical thought. He knew, because he knew. Did his romantic heart yearn to answer he knew because, in the muted silence of the world's darkened hours, the universe tilted slightly off course as they interacted, resuming its path of constancy after their parting? Strangely, yes. And in a fashion, the more immediate universe they inhabited on the Grid subsequent had already begun listing, drawn by the undercurrents beneath the calm, triangles lain on top of triangles, each providing the points in the whole of a star, that symbol that spoke, _Here, this is it. Look here._

If prophecy were not so adamantly frown upon with the halls of greater espionage, he'd venture to foretell, like Cassandra of old, both the loss and the gain teetering before them. Because he knew, in his heart, the losses will be most foul and vile, and the gains, therefore, equal in measure, hollow and soul crushing. It was the dates, of course. The dates told the tale of her activities, her assumptions, her desperation to prove an improvable fact. The thunderous vortex against which she beat her frenetic wings told her nothing so much as Harry had done it. Examining the cyber activity as if nesting snugly on her shoulder, even he could not deny absolutely the truth of Angela's wild accusations, though he was not nearly as motivated as she appeared to be.

It was not an act of outright hypocrisy, then, that he activated the ghost on Harry's office computer. He rationalized it to himself as leaving Ruth alone, and taking up with another, what...opponent? _Yes_, one who was infinitely better equipped to handle an assault of this nature, adept and almost graceful amidst the battlefield, a warrior, a fighter from the start. Surprising then that what he had thought to discover had not been what he had discovered, bemused at himself for his own hubris at knowing all there was to know, his softly muttered _bloody hell_ drawing Colin's attention briefly, the requisite smile he offered him in reassurance feeling both authentically false and hollow.

Harry had, for a number of hours, dedicated himself not to Angela's file, as he had expected, but Ruth's and Peter Haigh's. Glancing over his shoulder at Colin, satisfying himself that he remained as dedicated as if he were Sisyphus come again, he scrolled the links visited, drew up documents, reviewed and gleaned, guessed and theorized, and found himself wondering at what Harry was playing at? Her file allowed nothing relevant to his eye, and a cursory glance through additional documents allowed little beyond basic details of an innocuous nature, the truth of Ruth, the meat of her marrow, remaining, inexplicably, veiled.

_The veil._ He wanted behind the veil, his mind's voice whispered, and truth told, now that he had listened, he found himself likewise fascinated with what remained behind the veil, imagining the feeling, to Harry, acting as would a corrosive agent applied methodically upon the skin. This is the thing, here, now. As anxious as he was to uncover the thing which lay beneath, he felt, churning underneath, his stomach clenching in answer, a chill at what lay ahead, for her, now that Harry had the scent, knowing him as he did.

No hubris there, simple fact, cold and gleaming. Knowing he would not stop until he had eaten all the marrow upon discovery. He would find it, of that Malcolm did not laud himself ignorant. Harry on the scent was both magnificent and chilling to observe. He would find it, all the things she had so clearly attempted to hide, and he would consume them, and in the feast, devour her. The instrument they made together, in his mind's eye, began to strum inharmonious, the melody suffering fits and starts, discordant tones providing the din, and he knew without being told this incursion marked the moment wherein the choice would be made, the exile of one would occur, yet the tendrils of ramifications reaching to grasp all.

It was a fleeting few minutes subsequent, as Colin paused, guillotine blade suspended in forward motion, head snapping up as his eyes turned to squint towards movements beyond his vision, that Angela appeared at the threshold, _escape from Stalag 13_, her voice dripping with sarcasm, her demeanor that of frustration and superiority, and he rapidly wiping the contents of his terminal, eyes locked on Jo as she was dragged behind her, the vile handbag clutched to her chest. Reminder of time's allotment diminishing having been reiterated through gritted teeth, he paused in his movements at the room's threshold between her and them, to gaze at Angela's form, slowly sliding to the floor, legs outstretching before her, and knew it for a blind, multifaceted and twisting, the look on her face providing the key, at once despondent, angry and determined.

He was struck by the intuition confirming his earlier assessment she was not exactly textbook suicidal, though it was clear, upon this closer inspection, she did not find the idea of her death, in theory, disconcerting, she would not take it by her own hand, as Peter Haigh had done. Quite possibly, the thought forming in conjunction with the shiver of caution sliding the length of his spine, she had chosen the alternative death by another's hand, what the cousins referred to as Suicide by Cop, the unloaded gun drawn, the bearer expunged with another that was not.

Exchange the gun for a fabricated explosive device, and it was not what he would categorize so very different in predicament. Excepting, of course, the former resulted in a single fatality, where the later's culmination guaranteed fatalities in the hundreds. He could not rid himself the hunch she was not averse to dying, perhaps entertaining the idea itself, and yet, in some innately palpable instinct to self preservation, to a lesser degree, one that granted opportunity to alter outcome, one that screamed_, I'm drowning and the waters are unfathomably deep._

His mind's voice whispered in response to her unspoken plea for help, asking as he perceived in the only manner left to her, captured as she was amidst a mechanism grinding forward of which she were but an insignificant part, the masticated pulp of what remained, manipulated and manipulating simultaneously.

He rather thought her a grievous animal, teeth bared and gnawing a trapped limb ensnared between the steel claws of a trap, driven to a deliberate act of self amputation, the instinctual urge to survive so fundamentally potent that all concerns involving subsequent become inconsequential to the primal compulsion to survive. Vilely contrary, her actions spoke to a pain so profound it left her base natural will towards survival subjugated, coerced by grief and disillusionment to bite down the cyanide, embrace the sweet almond stench, but for her paradoxical need to be helped. His eyes had watered against the heinousness of the image, and he had little doubt he would never absolutely understand which had formed the steel trap or the shredded limb in her evaluation. Brooding the causes, silently collating the options, her existence in the present, her life's collected participation within the greater mechanism of espionage, or a future so devoid of human connections, the loss of her lover, the longing for an end a craving so excruciating she sought relief, her instinct to survive bending obscenely to accommodate?

Availing himself a vacant desk, he watched at a distance the trio standing in Harry's office. Colin likewise claiming a chair, turning to glance towards the office, then to Zaf whose shrug indicated without words his similar state of uninformed bystander, each waiting for the next task to be parceled, each occupied by thoughts known only to themselves. For his part, he suited himself to observing body language, his earlier precognition of events unfolding straining against the complacency of an idle mind despite his fatigue.

The hallmarks were there, the most obvious of them being the presence of the three to the exclusion of everyone else. His line of vision to Harry was periodically encumbered as Ruth shifted from one foot to the next, and he knew her anxiety was functioning at a higher than customary stratum. Easily anticipated, predictable, he'd guess, her exposed positioning within two overlapping triangles wreaking certain havoc within her. His attention drawn immediately to the details of her earlier ministrations, as well as those of Harry's, he wonders again the voracity of Angela's accusations, those meant to provoke and damage, a rift personal in nature existing without explanation offered outside the suggestion it was, at origin, down to Ruth.

He'd had opportunity, before he and Colin were summarily exiled from the tech suite, to examine those documents that had captured Harry's attention, and the exercise did little to inform the details. Granted, he had been expedient, perhaps excessively so their time dwindling down becoming tenuous by the minute, but his mind was mildly didactic to a point, and the files running behind his eyes, mentally slowed in their progression to a snails pace, still leave him inexplicably dumbfounded.

Clearly the Peter Haigh component figured important to the whole, owing both his association with Ruth and Angela, reminding him that the missing details likely illustrate the tale, those present merely fostering it, providing asylum. Something,_ something_ his mind whispered as his imagination colored the obvious conclusion, the words _love affairs_, _unrequited_, webs fabricated from _convoluted affections_ figuring prominently, the mental lines and arrows matching those tangibly present on the elaborate flowchart decorating the co-opted plexiglass stood idle to the right of him.

He had just begun adding flesh to the images decorating his consciousness when he caught movement in Harry's office, though he couldn't identify if it were Ruth's or Adam's, and squinted only in time to see Adam gently touch her as she passed to exit. He watched as though screen within a screen, each eye focused on one. Ruth moving quickly across the grid, towards him at the desk sat next to hers, simultaneous to Adam, in profile, turning back to Harry, his lips moving, his fingers flexing at his side. It was Harry's face, exposed in Ruth's physical absence, that compelled his eyes to behave as they were designed, both focused on him, wearing a look of pained resignation, and he knew the choice of solidarity had been made, the haunted eyes lending themselves to the conclusion he had been chosen, and cast out. Now, the ramifications would begin, the slow dissolution of melody and song as the instrument came crashing to the floor.

Her hands were shaking, and her breathing carried with it the barest hint of hiccup, characteristic of a person desperately attempting to maintain control despite the betrayal their body strove to inflict. Things began moving quickly, then, and it was only then he'd thought to notice exactly how much time had passed, the previous nature of it deceiving, the impression that of density, thick syrup sliding languorously from a Maple.

Rising from his chair, he'd intended to move towards Ruth, but as events began to accelerate, his progress was impeded by Adam who had moved next to him, instantly, or it had seemed, followed by Harry, moving at half speed, and at a guess, in a manner best described as leaden, stopping just short of joining the circle they made, the distance deliberate, a quarantine maintaining space from them, and notable for its separation from Ruth.

"I'm going to need you to kit Ruth, Malcolm."

"Wha...Adam, Angela's in the tech suite, she's-"

"Yeah, about that-"

He guessed he shouldn't have been surprised as he watched each of them produce all manner of technical gadgetry secreted in desk drawers, pockets, rucksacks. His eyes widening despite him, a physical effort to clamp down fiercely that urge that wanted expression best left to another time fueling his current state of frustration and fatigue, it nevertheless did not escape notice that amongst the array of plunder, no one had seen fit to cop to the Micro Dot reader missing for well past a month. With this observation, the pieces clicked so substantially into place he'd thought the snapping audible to all present. It had been a Micro Dot, Angela's tooth, and Ruth, _oh Ruth, _she had known, and it was all so painfully obvious he'd found himself ashamed the length in time wasted to calculate.

Forcing his attention to selecting those implements best suited to task, he ignored the pulsing undercurrents present, the myriad of betrayals and choices thought inconsequential force fed into the maw of a destructive mechanism at work against them and within them. Adam, voice soft so as not to carry beyond, carefully explaining the details, patiently addressing objections, an astonishing number voiced from Zaf, with reasoned argument, calm throughout, and Harry maintaining his distance, curiously silent in the face of muted insubordination.

"We can fit her with this mic, but I, well, I-" Colin allowed the thought to trail off unspoken, his thought process disrupted in the act of examining said mic for damage and efficacy, and thus left me the task of enunciating in his stead.

"It will likely be obvious, the size, and with Ruth's familiarity being kitted infrequent, she could, quite unintentionally mind you, give its presence away. Um, body language, a bit of fidgeting, Angela will hone in immediately. I'm sorry, Ruth, I don't mean to suggest-"

"She understands, Malcolm," hurriedly offered. Adam glanced quickly towards Ruth, reading with astute accuracy she had little feeling on the matter, staring, eyes glazed and slightly unfocused, her continued silence perfectly enhancing those reckless and precarious aspects associated with a plan predicated on sending her as emissary charged with disarming a coiled, venal snake of its poison.

"I believe _this_ would suit nicely." The mic held between thumb and forefinger was the size of a teardrop, opaque, and he thought perfect.

"We could fit it invisible within your necklace, Ruth. Against the charms, she'd not likely find it if she should frisk you. Or, or...follow standard protocol." He wouldn't put it past her, however, forcing Ruth to disrobe, and as though they had shared the same conclusion simultaneously, he listened as Harry voiced the exact concern on which he currently meditated.

"I imagine the humiliation of forced divestment would have its appeal. I rather think it quite likely. We need ears, regardless. Go with it."

His face remained, to all, that mask of cold indifference, and it was only his weight shifting unconsciously, foot to foot, and back again which allowed the suspicion to flourish, based on years of interaction, Harry was at cross purposes as relates this incursion and Ruth. He was, for wont of better descriptives, straddling those opposing circumstances defined by duty and affection, his anguish that he could not satisfy the requirements calling to both evidenced in his refusal to come nearer them, and his customary stoicism giving way to repetitive movements best suited to indecision.

He could see her pulse beating rapidly as he attached the mic to her necklace, fluttering in time with the wings of that hummingbird he had imagined, as she flitted about, and he inwardly chastised himself that he did not request she simply remove her necklace to save her further unsolicited intrusion. The rote objectivity which suspended kindness to an afterthought left him meditating his father's wisdom, the viability of maintaining an untainted soul once Pavlovian habits have taken root. All the more deleterious and vile for having learned his patterned responses within an institution demanding of each sacrifices to preserve the whole, regardless the pound of flesh in the trade.

Despite the fact they were not alone, despite the action teetering the line between duty and insubordinate, despite the fact that he couldn't tear his eyes from her thundering pulse he wished he knew how to soothe, he could not stop himself from leaning closer to her, whispering close to her ear, _I'm sorry, Ruth_, not entirely certain for what actions he was sorry, his own, theirs, Angela's? What was a definite in his estimation was he, apart from the rest, was most likely to give voice to regrets, the only one among them who would willingly dare the risk of unquestionable accountability, and thus the semantic cerebral calisthenics involving the details of sorrow and regret became moot in consideration of her. It was, ironically, the single circumstance where he had ever proven brave, and perhaps that, in itself, washed him clean.

"Test it." It was not a request, but an order issued from the periphery, the tone carrying an edge which brooked little opportunity to question or argue. Glancing briefly towards him, his eyes took in Harry's face, the look telegraphing without veil that state of mind he'd glimpsed in the past, moments before he'd taken a life with his bare hands, the sounds traveling beyond the earwigs and filling the tech suite, the look that announced silently his willingness to sacrifice one in defense of all.

She had a backbone on her, he'd not deny the truth of that. Instructed coldly to test her listening device, she uttered one word, and in that one word, she managed to do what no one before her had thought possible. She broke him.

"Harry."

His sudden inhalation of breath had been audible, the subsequent flinching back from her had been lightening quick, and yet observable with their close confines, and while she had said nothing further, her voice speaking a single name had carried with it a tone of great sadness, of disappointment so palpable he did not wonder Harry's inability look at her in the aftermath.

"You'll need to secure the detonator, Ruth. The bag is incidental, you understand?" Adam, ever the one to soothe her, speaking quietly into the deadening silence which followed Harry's name, and she nodding silently, eyes still focused on the one amongst us who refused to look at her.

She shifted slightly, placing her hand on my arm, gently tugging, a silent request for me to step back, leaning to unlock the bottom drawer of her desk and retrieving what had looked like, in the vague illumination, a considerably aged cell phone, obsolete now certainly, secreting it into the folds of her skirt, and he resisted the urge to caution her of the risks inherent to venturing off piste, the secreted object an ingredient not having been discussed or approved. The almost imperceptible shake of her head halted that urge within him to question, leaving him to draw a deep breath and allow his eyes to take in those surrounding him instead. Those sets belonging to Colin and Zaf bore matching elements of fear, reservation, and concern, elements which he'd little doubt reflected those present in his mirrored reflection, while Harry and Adam's remained locked on one another, both cold and immovable, and he needed little additional evidence to access that Adam had chosen Ruth, the act viewed as one of solidarity by one, and an intolerable betrayal by the other. It was not without some sadness that he reflected, as their eyes battled against each other, as Ruth quietly began moving towards the offending tech suite, that the music which had so often accompanied them in his mind had ceased, the silence which remained deafeningly present, opaque to such a degree he'd thought to lay his fingertips along its breadth.

It occurred that perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps it was Ruth who had been cast out, her frail frame retreating from them now, alighting to an alternate place beyond their eyes' ability to observe, the tether joining her to them found in the secreted charm adorning her fragile neck, and she had never before appeared so small and vulnerable to his eyes than when she turned and disappeared from sight. The obscenity that the final denouement should rest solely on those slender shoulders was curiously amplified within him as his Pavlovian salivation began, and the curtains began to draw closed, the rote distancing inherent to _needs must_ assuming the mantle of his compromised conscience, by necessity.

Quite despite himself, he felt a moment of kinship with Harry. He didn't want to, but as the curtains come down, one finds them self reaching for anything at hand to bear the consequences. Its what they teach you, its what you know, a horrifying certainty to compliment the horrors that surround us, the psychic antibacterial salve our souls bathe in. He saw Harry, then, set apart, waring with himself, with Adam, adrift, and his heart understood him without judgements, saw his pain and his damage as clear as if he'd held them in his hands held open before him on offer.

The full weight of his responsibilities, the accountability of damage both internal and external, experienced himself to a lesser degree, the pound of flesh an amputation he was only required to imagine, and Harry required to experience habitually, the intensity magnified to a strata that would buckle a lesser man, _had_ buckled those before him. He wondered then the additional damage done, the _once done can't be undone_ nature and power of the resolved will, that psychological defect necessary to send lambs to slaughter, the limits of that reservoir of internal strength drawn from to bear the sorting of corpses in the aftermath?

Despite his objective resolve, despite his internal affections crying foul, despite his wont to blame, and accuse, he could not find it in him to fault Harry any measure of respite found in Ruth, inwardly cursing his assumptions that they were not, at their basest measure, genuine and unequivocally deserved, shaming him in his faulty assessment of the man, the hubris of knowing all there was so egregiously obvious he'd thought to physically expel it as toxin. Who was he to judge the motivations of another, calling one foul and subversive even as he stares at his ceiling and curses the lack of bravery to have chosen her, pining rather than acting, choosing to clasp a fantastical dream to his chest rather than the breathing object of his heart? He feels the flush coloring his cheeks, and can not bring himself to fault Harry's bravery, so very different from his own, and yet just as fragile in love as he had been so many years ago, and calls it lucky that he resides in the woodwork, and lucky that he is alive and able to regard Harry after so many years side by side a friend, a rock which they all may rest against, that fixture that ensures they remain well, that will that prevents the crippling of others for having to choose between rubbish choices and worse.

It was then, in the quiet of lock down, preternatural stillness belying the coming storm, as they anticipated the swell of the orchestra tuning to begin, he considered, not for the first time, if it weren't, in some unmeasurable way, too late for him to escape the clutches of the Services, too late to walk away from Harry and call it at an appropriate end?

Yet, as his eyes took in the form of Jo, hollow eyed and immeasurably fatigued as she rejoined them, he could swear he heard the faint strums of melody begin, the instrument they made proving bowed, not broken, strong enough still to blissfully drown out the voice inside his head which whispered, _Not yet, not yet._

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	14. Chap14: The Phoenix Rising

**A/N: Yes, well, it seems one more point of view wanted telling before progressing into the corridor. I'll confess now I cannot continue to quell the urge to introduce H/R smut, and hope that as future chapters take shape, you find yourself equally incapable of quelling that urge to read, and want more. Reviews, both favorable or not, are always a welcome treasure. **

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"__I watched you burn alive_

_And from the ashes you rise_

_It should be no surprise_

_You were always a phoenix in disguise"_

-Lux, Resurrection

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

She had not been prepared for this circumstance. Not properly, no, and the resulting resentment she feels currently does little by way of curbing the forming intuition she has selected the greater evil from a pool of rubbish, going nowhere fast options. One bright day operating by rote, engaged in her habitual efforts to gain access to the world of Journalism, _with a capital 'J,' thank you,_ given way, almost without conscious thought, by virtue of discarding a cell phone on instinct, to an underworld merely whispered about, and rarely seen. Its just that he was so very attractive, unusually so for a run of the mill maintenance representative, and she'd thought innocently enough what could be the harm in following him, really?

It had all happened faster than she'd had time to consider the consequences of electing to follow Adam into the darkened corner, his recruitment technique played beautifully, seductive and appealing to her sense of fighting the good fight. _Never mind_, she hears herself say again, the car alarms still ringing in the back of her mind, the bursting blue flashes lighting the darkened windows in a fireworks display she still sees when she shuts her eyes. She was snared before she's thought to examine the intricacies of the trap, as much as by his enthusiasm and clear blue eyes as her desire to belong to something bigger than herself, the Thames flowing beneath them as he wooed her, deceptively calm he was, and it had been easy then to breathe,_Yes_,_ please_.

But she sees them now, crystalizing, and that rush of adrenaline appealed to as they stood on a bridge spanning silted, churning water isn't, if she was honest, validating her decision. Rather, it acts as an accelerant, bringing her insecurities and self doubt to the fore, trampling the slightest hint of confidence she had managed to compile for herself between the short length of time defining _Then_ and _Now_. She has come to define her life by segments, the _Then_ portion delineated as 'Joanna,' encompassing everything she had dreamed of being, the corresponding _Now_ designated as 'Jo,' the suitably shortened moniker for a willfully chosen semi-life, breathing half in shadows, an appropriate tool aiding her self reconciliation of the choices she's made. Debilitating to a certain extent, yes, but no different from the masks everyone wears, the faces they chose to reveal or keep hidden as a matter of course. Worse still, Angela Wells knows it. She feels it, probing her as fingertips grazing her consciousness, picking expertly those loose fissures, those many vulnerabilities inherent to a newly born agent, green and still wearing the psychic attachments of a life before this, the 'Joanna' secreted inside her, deconstructing her effortlessly with a well placed word and an inhuman mastery of dismissive indifference.

This woman, there can be no doubt, was the physical manifestation of a textbook villain, amplified, and considerably more terrifying that those she had been made to study, and she wonders whether this instance will be included in future tutorials, the bookended conclusion to balance the INLA operation presented, as instruction or, perhaps to caution those selected fresh faces in love with the idea of espionage, and little real experience which would counsel otherwise. Angela Wells was a seasoned warrior, embattled and scared, and she reduced to tears in the wake of onslaught, almost instantaneously at the mention of her mother. She had culled her, identified her as weakest, torn her from the herd, and she was certain her ill advised burst of laughter had little to do with the decision. No, she had ascertained immediately she was weak, smelt her freshly budding on the vine, her laughter becoming that incidental action which irrefutably proved the accuracy of assumption.

Her face suffusing pink, she resents the shame she feels, the weakness so obvious as to be identified within mere seconds of introduction, the pink fleshing a deeper red as she hears herself laud this warrior, _That ops legend, they teach it_, the idea that she had already been determined frail, her foaling skills determined anemic at best while she fawned triggering the urge to retch. She watches herself as she backs down, the fear fluttering in her chest, her eyes wide and blinking, _Do you think that's funny, _and her denials validating her weakness, backtracking verbally, the apologetic tones dripping from her lips, the sound in her head making her want to disappear, melt into the floor, turn back on the path she feared afforded little means for escape to her now. They had all watched and said nothing, as Angela bore down on her, twisting her up, and they had not offered anything in return, in defense of her, one of their own, and yet apart, and she had never in her life felt more isolated than in those few torturous moments of clear dispensability.

They don't teach you how to gird yourself against your own. They teach you all manner of physical defense, take you step by step through the ritual of interrogations, meditate on the specific reasons why you will never again be the person you were before crossing the threshold, why you must be that stranger knocking the door of those you have loved and been loved by, same face but indescribably different. They leave you thinking, _Well, that's done now, _excitedly anticipating the real thing, thirsting the genuine article, the moment when you rise triumphant because how could you not? You salivate for the opportunity to adopt your first legend, to wear another's fabricated skin and life, the opportunity to do what you never would have done egregiously allowed as your unadulterated face adorns the passport belonging to another.

You engage in your first honey trap exercise, and you understand it entirely within your power to stay or take the escape clause behind door number two, and you choose to stay because you are not Joanna Portman, daughter of Helen, but Rachel something and you want this man you've chosen to deceive, whose hands run the length of your body, responding because you are not you. Somehow you justify it an act of gauging skills and ability, coloring it as necessary, a test of your mettle, and most definitely not your will needing to be touched, caressed, yearning to belong, reclaimed, to simplicity, unity, those circumstances you've chosen deliberately to disavow as belonging to you.

They don't tell you that you can become Angela Wells in the trade, having engaged for so long you're unrecognizable to yourself, the face staring back vaguely familiar but you just can't place it. She wonders how many times Angela has stared into a mirror only to find a stranger staring back. Observing her now, she notes the almost catatonic, lifeless stare, and cannot stop the intuition from forming that she could, quite possibly, be observing herself, years in the future, no longer green and fresh, mouldering and disillusioned, the years in between marked by effort and will, but resulting in little discernible outside the successful op taught to those that follow behind her, a life surmounted and destroyed, an avenue left unexamined and unprepared for.

If she were smart, if she were not roiling, in this moment, in self doubt and turmoil, she would use this as an instructional circumstance, the very essence of turning a frown upside down, as Helen would counsel, and she manages to hide the smile that plays the corners of her mouth, the instances wherein her mother had voiced such advise appearing now, in the comparison, childish and heartbreakingly simplistic. No doubt it is exactly what Adam and Harry would advise she set herself to task, a rather ironic twist to _Learn from this woman; She's a lot to give _uttered by Juliet Shaw what seems to her days ago. Another legend, Juliet, yet taken in by the hardened figure set before her, and she thinks perhaps she might be allowing her indecision at choices made to illustrate the measure of self depreciations she continues to presently foist upon herself silently.

Shared failures can be as powerful as successes, simply a matter of perspective, and she uses Juliet's monumental failure to identify Angela as a threat as a tool to bolster her defenses, that protective band aid which provides temporary shelter to her bruised ego, vanity, and confidence within a field littered with vain, egotistical and over confident agents, addicted, chasing the rush. She isn't yet one of them, but the desire remains tangible, a palpable itching within her, despite her current circumstances, and she allows the curtain to fall, feels the indifference take the place of empathy and concern, becoming that other in the overall 'its you or me equation,' allowing her rarely glimpsed selfish streak to choose herself over the tragedy that sits one chair away, deadened words spoken without tone, triumphant and defeated simultaneous.

She cannot deny her fascination with Ruth's positioning within the mechanism at work, though she was taken aback with Angela's posturing regarding same. For her part, she had taken to Ruth quickly, which wasn't necessarily unusual owing to who she used to be. Open, friendly, the Joanna she had been acquired a rich existence populated by numerous people she regarded as friends. What successes she lacked professionally had been more than compensated for in a personal life flush with activity. Ruth had, for wont of better description, replaced all those she had willingly discarded in favor of the Realm, becoming an old friend in a new life quite instantaneously. She possessed a nurturing quality, if she were forced to pinpoint the most engendering of her many traits, one which appealed in the absence, or rather, the willing suspension of it required in their shared profession, and rather distinguished herself from the rest in an appealingly unassuming manner.

They were not friends, yet not merely acquaintances, in all. It was unlikely they would spend any precious off time engaging in the intrinsically girly preoccupations characteristic of her old life; Visits to the spa, copious alcoholic fueled conversations, the speculative nature of what their lives would be predicated on, marriage and family, where they would live. In hindsight, it all rather gleamed jarringly superficial and empty. Enjoyable, absolutely, but with her new life and requisite perspective, sadly minuscule and shallow. In her estimation, Ruth was a woman who managed to navigate the waters others succumbed to, retaining that sense of self and individuality intrinsic to her, while performing brilliantly the tasks laid before her, emerging surprisingly intact and wonderfully human.

They had grown acquainted gradually, owing to Ruth's informal tutorials providing a summary of what she, and by extension, Malcolm and Colin were tasked to accomplish. She found her curious, initially; Her tendency to leave sentences unfinished, her eyes growing glassy and unfocused becoming the hallmark indicating she was thinking in tangent, her mind digressing into a fissure seen only to her, and she had found herself quite mesmerized by the play of her face in those moments, learning to wait patiently until Ruth came back from where ever she had been, some piece of Intel grasped tightly in hand.

It wasn't long before she realized that everyone regarded Ruth in much the same way, that nurturing influence which inexplicably made you feel better, even if you were unable to identify the cause, the ill that niggled and weeped. It had been Ruth to whom she turned when needing to give voice to thoughts involving the circumstances of Fiona Carter's death, the means by which Adam's grief manifested alarming in its infrequency, and she remembered thinking at the time, _Ah, so there it is_ as Ruth identified for her the forlorn look captured on his face periodically, when he would go absolutely, alarmingly still, his face slack and eyes staring, lifeless.

She had wondered then if the life they have chosen required habitual solitude, and remembers thinking there was still time for companionship, deliberately ignoring the abundance of available evidence to the contrary, the refutation of each colleague's continued status remaining unattached, unmarried, widowed, or in Harry's case, divorced. Estrangement was their collective default position, thus not surprising that affections vacillated to and fro between colleagues populating Five and, in rare cases, Six. Love affairs occurred, or were rumored, in any case, generating quickly, almost rabid with furious intensity, burning and diffusing with clinical efficiency, and the rarity of matrimonial unions such as Adam and Fiona's was painfully disheartening. That there was a child seemed almost selfishly cruel, a personal belief validated as the days wore on, as she understood few amongst them dared to taunt the fates by creating another from themselves, a weakness, an Achilles heel bearing your name and blood.

Typically contrary, Ruth held an affection for everyone, understated in display, constant in strength, but it was when in the company of Adam's son, Wes, that she allowed herself to be seen, the boy drawing from her the carefully guarded person she had hidden away when she too first crossed the threshold, born anew. The boy had an easy way about him, his casual charm befitting his father, and a warm, curious spirit shared by his mother, or so she had been told, the period of time spent in Fiona's company prior to her demise cataloged in her mind as consisting of an instant. She had been fascinated by how he melted, literally, around Ruth, his childish concerns shared privately with her through whispers, heads held close to the other, his body pouring into hers all his fears and vulnerabilities he would share with no one else.

It had been Malcolm that first recognized Ruth had stepped in to fill what portion of the void Fiona had left, identifying the need, securing the necessities, and she who had tirelessly interviewed nannies until satisfied. Nice girl, she had thought of the selection. _Jenny._ A bit young to her eyes, but then she hadn't seen the things that her eyes had seen, the ache of premature aging the unsolicited side effect weighing heavier as days pass. She had often found herself wondering if they all hadn't unconsciously chosen their family in choosing the Realm, shrugging off their old life, that sense of belonging as a part of another through shared genetic strains, selecting those persons to fill the void, much as Ruth had for Wes.

She regrets the loss, that ability to see yourself reflected absolutely in the eyes and actions of siblings, parents, that internal yearning to belong to something larger than yourself, and yet minuscule, one hereditary chain lain against millions. She feels it most when in Wes' company, rare as those occasions are. Still, they have happened, their gathering together at Adam's, an unspoken attempt to imitate normalcy for the boy becoming some uncontrollable instinct they all felt, yet couldn't bring themselves to vocalize, and like the journalist she had intended to become, she contented herself to watch as his presence drew from each those portions of themselves customarily hidden.

He seemed to gravitate between Harry and Ruth, and for his part, Harry displayed an open countenance, laughing and joking as Wes regaled him some tidbit or another. It was difficult not to smile affectionately as Wes climbed about Harry as though he were some breathing piece of gymnastic equipment, identifying points of physical weakness his small fingers tickling mercilessly, Harry's huge hands dwarfing Wes' as he demonstrated the proper cricket stance and grip. It was in those moments she'd thought this is what Harry was like as a child, the cold stoicism giving way to a sparkling mischievous streak, and no small amount of patience as he was riddled with questions without answers, _Why do the hubcaps spin backwards if the car is moving forwards? Why do I have to wear socks? Where does the tooth fairy keep your teeth? Do you miss your mummy_? Her name was Fiona, she thinks, Harry's mother, and she wonders how deeply that shared knife cuts them both.

Eventually, as predictable as clockwork, Wes would materialize, curling himself next to Ruth, his hand on her arm, leaning into her side, his cross legged knee resting on top of her thigh. And she would lean down, placing whispers and kisses across his crown, tickling his side until he erupted with laughter, rolling around, and coming to rest again his head lain in her lap, his face adoring as he gazed up at her. Sometimes her eyes had watered. Sometimes her heart had burst. Most times, she'd understood what she had sacrificed.

_I love you to the sky, and back._

_In the oceans we swim,_

_On the Milky Way we glide,_

_And the stars we hold._

_And if you should fall from me_

_Sat side by side our yellow crescent moon,_

_I will catch your hand,_

_I will stop your fall,_

_And never, ever let go._

She had overheard it, while not meaning to eavesdrop, but incapable of stepping away. So, yes, she had eavesdropped that first time, and the words became visions within her head as she memorized them despite herself. They had recited it, line by line, her face bearing the hint of a smile, and his young one upturned, the solemnity present lending itself to his seriousness, this spoken ritual between them known, and well traveled. Her throat had closed in on itself, that first time, swollen with emotion and the knowledge that she had grown accustomed to distancing herself already, her instinctual reaction to the scene before her becoming that much more immobilizing for infrequent use, a sprained emotional muscle aching within her, appealing to 'Joanna' slumbering in a darkened cave of her own making.

_"__You have to say it, Ruth."_ She had stifled a giggle from escaping, his tone commanding and yet so tragically preadolescent in pitch it wrenched at her heart.

_"__Do I?" _Ruth's tone had been teasing, familiar, this part of the ritual known by rote, her role within appropriately played. She had taken her hand and smoothed at the furrows forming between his eyes, and he had become liquid, leaning into her, eyes wide and adoring.

_"__Please?" _The plea was whispered, urgently, and slightly muffled as he climbed more fully into her lap, settling himself with his forehead against her neck, her chin resting on the crown of his fair hair.

_"__All right, go on then."_ Her breath had disturbed his blonde halo, and to her eyes each strand had moved as she recited the words, in slow motion, his body rising with hers, one unit together, her chest expanding as she breathed and inhaled him.

_"__I do,"_ he pledged.

_"__I do,"_ she replied.

He had wrapped his thin arms around her neck, and she had rocked him silently as he wept, deep, wracking sobs for his mother who had taught him of swans, and read him stories, and held him when he was afraid. It had happened in this fashion every time, without fail, and like some unspoken direction, everyone had removed themselves, leaving only the two of them, because Wes had chosen Ruth, and Ruth alone as his venue for grief's expression.

_"__It was something he did with Fiona." _ Startled, she had jumped, knocking her elbow painfully against a shelf, massaging it as it thrummed nauseous. _"He adores her."_

_"__She's brilliant with him, Adam." _ She would have continued, wanted to say more, but some instinct spoke caution, counseled her to remain still, her eyes watching Harry watch Ruth, the wracking sobs from the boy abating into haphazard hiccups, his eyes half closed, exhaustion merging into a half sleep, his well of grief expunged for the moment. She hadn't noticed Harry's arrival, nor had she ability to pinpoint his exit in hindsight. Neither could she say Adam had been any more aware than she, there and gone like vapor. She had noticed Harry's face, so much a mirror of Wes' adoration, and if she were honest, it had chilled her for its naked, unadorned vulnerability. A mere heartbeat later, she understood she had grown so accustomed to Harry maintaining a watchful eye on Ruth, his physical presence forming a satellite of sorts, it rather fell to unconscious acceptance, almost breaching that frequency of occurrence her eyes rarely bothered to even register it consciously.

She had entertained the idea there was an undercurrent between the three, Adam, Ruth and Harry. Some measure of familiarity that was at once rare and necessary. She had fumbled her suspicions during an ill advised conversation with Malcolm, who, ever the gentleman, deftly sidelined her queries, and, though infinitely kind, left her with the impression it was not a topic of discussion he would tolerate. He had been fine discussing the three of them, but she had pushed the envelope, owing no doubt her journalistic tendencies, and as the conversation began to revolve around Harry and Ruth, to the exclusion of Adam, Malcolm had chosen the path less traveled marked silence. Ironically, it was his refusal to discuss the topic, _Idle gossip better left for hens_, he had muttered, which allowed her suspicions the spark of authenticity, raised from the drunken speculations characteristic of her old life, and solidified as unspoken fact in her new life, her new mind.

His face, hidden by half in the shadows, had openly adored her as she rocked the boy, and she couldn't help but wonder if there had ever been someone for Harry to pour his grief into, as a boy who had lost his mother, his own Fiona, had there been someone to hold him and pledge fealty? She thought it unlikely then, and even now she cannot envision the adult Harry ever being a miniature version, despite the glimpses of uncharacteristic amusement and boyishly juvenile antics Wes never failed to draw from that adolescent boy hidden and breathing somewhere deep within him. She wondered what the absence of such comfort foretold, the child growing into a man? Did the phycological scars mirror the raised and discolored defects that blister and mare, the story in braille writ upon the surface of his skin? Perhaps that is what draws him to Ruth, that comfort absent his own childhood, displayed unabashedly in the present, that yearning finding hesitant solace from the distant periphery he paces? She suspects he loves her. She suspects it terrifies him. She knows he cannot stop.

In all, she liked the idea of them together, Harry and Ruth, her inclination to write, put thoughts and words to paper as second nature to her as breathing, found her mentally weaving the story of them in the absence of concrete fact, a habit which occupied those moments of inactivity infrequent on the Grid, her mind picking the threads, and embellishing as her fancy desired. If she were to relinquish this life for yet another, a daydream she entertained more often that would be advised, she fancied they would make a decent enough plot for a novel, one you grab to occupy yourself as you vacation in the sun, the ocean your music, the sky your canopy, and the idea that there is another in the world so specifically perfect, so intricately attuned to you it is not, then, so absurd to believe 'The One' is more than a fantasy you tell yourself as a little girl, dreaming on what would be.

"_I could have loved her, you know. She could have been my sister, too."_

Startled back into the present, she cannot conceive of a more frightening thought than one which involved being loved by this woman, this dangerously unhinged retired agent who had little difficulty attaching an explosive device to her wrist, nor cruelly taunting her with her mother's illness refashioned into a vicious weapon. Unconditional love, that level of acceptance desired by all, but rarely achieved, a fabled unicorn which would not find a home within Angela Wells, yet she remained fascinated, the urge to know what the shape and definition of love was in her estimation, what taste did it carry, what smell rang with memory, had it been the existence or the absence that led her to this?

She thought her the result of that absence of love which carried the additional insult of somehow manifesting, yet remaining largely unrequited, her affections hinting towards a tendency to judgements, valuations of depth and measure. She was reminded of an old friend, her mind plucking the theme from the recesses of her old life, who had dissolved dangerously easily into the morass of desperation for loving an instructor who would not love her back. Obsessive, suffocating, she had watched as this previously gregarious and attractive girl devolved into a shadow, stalking and adrift, all the more soul crushing because she recognized it could easily have been herself, her need to be accepted by men as worthy the mirrored leftover insecurity driving them both, a daily reminder that her own father had left, the picture of him in memory including only vague distinctions of hair color, _dark_, and eyes, _blue_, leaving her with little outside of last name, and an alarmingly potent need to be accepted, wanted, worthy.

She would not go so far as to admit that discovering she was not alone in this particular insecurity comforted her, but there was, admittedly, some measure of unspoken communion fostered with others whose stories bore resemblance to her own, the details varied individually, but the wound was identical in nature and catalyst. She felt no similar connection with Angela, though she suspected her story, the chapters combining to form the whole of the damaged woman sat opposite her, were more likely similar than contrary, if she were of a mind to be interested. As it stood, she found herself unsurprisingly disinterested to the extent she evaluated it useless at the moment as a tool to manipulate her freedom, and rather examined it unconsciously, as one would a beetle struggling to right itself, numerous legs flailing against a sky which held no chance of assistance, underbelly exposed.

She mentally reiterates the varied rules of interrogation, most primary among the myriad that of concentrating on clearing your mind of all thought, achieving that tabula rasa whose stark emptiness prevents those personal elements revealed for manipulation. Despite herself, she pictures her mother's face instead, the scarf that covers her head to hide the loss of hair, the veins in her arms that bulge as a consequence of medical treatments, hears the whispery rasp that accompanies her words, and the lone lamp illuminating her terrible solitude as she scrapes at the paltry bits remaining within her reservoir of strength and will. She cannot clear her mind as instructed, she cannot picture that serene place where all is calm, her mind mercifully at rest, placid. In her mind's eye she pictures fire, the vibrant yellows and reds and oranges bleeding into one another, dancing as the sparks rise into a violet hued midnight sky, the popping of wood sounding in her ears, sizzling as it burns, and she thinks better this than tranquil ponds with mournful, wailing loons, and maybe anger has a place, and maybe fury isn't the emotionally blinding weakness they would have agents believe. She imagines herself burning, the heat suffocating, closing her eyes against the pain, feeling herself reform, reshape, bursting to be reborn aflame and unconquered.

She imagines smashing the beetle wearing Angela's face beneath the tip of her shoe, hears the crack as the hard shell snaps and the odious substance of her squeezes out, milky and thick, and wishes it were that easy.

_"__-To cut off your head." _

She states it without note of apology, her tone bearing only a hint of her desire to bear witness to exactly such a circumstance, refusing to buckle and bend, drawing strength from Adam, stood across the room, smirking in acknowledgement. She thinks he understands her unspoken message, her desire for him to know she's unwilling to be used as a passive pawn to manipulate them, hoping he recognizes the futility of that urge to coach her voiced earlier. Her eyes, focused and bright, lock on his and telegraph silently, _I know what this is, I know._

**_o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_**

_"__Ruth has been a very bad girl."_

Her muttered _Ruth_ in reply had leapt from her lips before she'd chance to couch tone and inflection, the obvious shock at the accusation sounding traitorously genuine in the suffocating silence, and she bit down on the tip of her tongue for again betraying the tenuousness of her skills and confidence, as her tears had done earlier. She reaches again for the blazing fire, needing the heat, the combustibility as paramount as that instinct to self preservation, finding softly muted embers and disappearing ash in its place. She watched as Angela continued to stare into nothingness, having already begun to ingest the image of herself as a dehumanized version named "giggler," she couldn't accurately decide which was worse, the spoken words dripping from her lips or the despondent silences which marked the moments between.

They had warned of this. They had objectively provided the recommended counter moves in textbook fashion, the appearance taking that disingenuous taint inherent to theory, dismissively cool as they detailed the moments of interrogation wherein you become your own undoing, your internal turmoil illustrating with increasing voracity the precariousness of your circumstances, the voice inside screaming _do something, say something_, while the rest of you wars to remain still and calm. They listed the inevitable recriminations that feed on self doubt, sensing an opening, touching the vulnerability, the soft parts which yearn to be acknowledged even as the words form weapons far worse than those of any physical assault.

It was the physical scars that mapped the course of your career, the voluntary comparisons and requisite details offered between agents, both new and seasoned, a testament to each success, each a badge of honor, an aberrant CV attesting to individual strengths of self preservation and skill. The psychological scars, the old school identification of tells and their manipulation, were the understood greater risk. The physical scars on display allowed some fellowship, an obscene derivation of intimacy when shared, but the emotional scars wounded deeper, enhancing the deep seated sense of isolation characteristic to maintaining control, festering unseen, unspoken, unshared, the toxin gaining strength within, and while she had little doubt Angela had her share of impressive physical scars marking her body, it was her emotional scars which destroyed her.

_"__Get up. Move, Giggler. Now!"_

She had crossed the distance suddenly, and wrapped her hand around her upper arm, nails digging deeply into the tender underside as she yanked her to her feet, shoving the explosive handbag forcefully into her chest, the _thwump_ it had made on impact reverberating against her sternum, propelling her, stumbling onto The Grid, registering the shock forming on Zaf's face, glimpsing from the corner of her eye Adam and Ruth with Harry, as she was unceremoniously frogmarched towards the tech suite.

_"__You have until dawn."_

She watched Colin's retreating back, glancing at the hole he had been creating, the size suggesting it unsuitable as a means of escape, despite the bars. If the circumstances hadn't been such, dire, speeding inexorably towards insurmountable, she would have laughed out loud, even as his slumping shoulders and loping gait tugged at her heart, the familiarity proving physically painful to her.

Where Colin's comportment gave every indication of defeat, Malcolm revealed nothing of what he was thinking or feeling, and she rather envied his years of experience, nearly matching those of Harry's, and the objectivity and self control allowed them in the trade. He had gazed at Angela, slumped against the wall, her eyes meditating the detonator held tightly in her hand, and for a split second she saw a crack form in his veneer, sympathy mixed with regret, his eyes squinting slightly in his confusion, and she understood at once how difficult this must be for him, apart from the obvious physical risks to them all.

He had, to some extent, as had been made clear in that short time before she bared her teeth, idolized this woman, had worked with her for a time, had saved her life with his particular bent towards gadgetry sounding the means. She imagined him in no small measure computing his accountability, the actions of the past willfully acted upon, the first steps taken which carried with them the overriding need to believe them right and just, necessary then, and not that seed of tumor awaiting a catalyst to begin the process of metastasizing, coloring light to dark, and dark to light, killing indiscriminately as it yearns to heal.

Quite naturally, as his eyes rested on hers before turning to leave, she began to envision Angela as that tumor, that vicious aberration replicating itself until becoming unsatisfied with the minimal buffet afforded her, vaulting from crouched seclusion within the beast and gorging herself on the greater meat, the voluminous numbers of victims sacrificed to feed her hunger for more.

_"__There won't be anything left but our shredded remains, you and me. Shame, really. This room is so very tiny. You would have made a lovely corpse. Although, you could count it a blessing you'll not suffer the misery of your mother's impending death. Its a gift, really. I'm allowing you the chance to die first. I didn't have that chance. I held him as he seeped out of himself."_

She's smiling, reptilian and cold, and its all she can do to stop her chin from trembling, her words tearing their way through her as intended. Squeezing her eyes shut, she knows she talking about Peter Haigh, that long silenced specter that continues to haunt the periphery, the reason for which she openly provoked Ruth.

_"__Imagine yourself, sat there, listening, attentive, as you hear the phlegm rising, her weakening death rattle filling the room, and you stuck somewhere between resenting she's still hanging on, and guilty that you'd wish she'd just find an end. How will you forgive yourself, do you imagine? Talk to Ruth about that. Oh, yes, our Ruth knows all about that. Festering little secret, that." _

Angela's staring forward towards the doorway as she speaks, her grin peeling back wider from her teeth as the atmosphere alters suddenly, the soft down of her arms reaching in response, her head slowly turning to find Ruth standing in the threshold, directed as if on cue, her portion of the play on the cusp of beginning. She experiences a moment of hope briefly before her stomach drops away, and she cannot stop the increase of her breathing, the rasping sound, so reminiscent of her mother's, escaping her lungs in rapid fire bursts of fear and adrenaline. She pictures Wes in her head, the vision of him curled into Ruth's side, and wants to scream _not again, not another, _knowing she is here in exchange, one life for another, and she will not be able to stand the weight of it.

She feels the keys as they burst across her chest, landing in the folds of her skirt, and her hands shake as she quickly releases herself from the handbag. She can taste the perspiration on her upper lip, feel her clothes as they stick to her lower back and shoulders, peeling away as she rises, a newborn fawn, unsteady, her legs a mass of needles as the circulation begins churning, and the rush of blood makes her lightheaded as she staggers towards Ruth, her ears numbed of sound, her fingers grasping at air, tingling back to life at her sides.

Ruth watches her, assessing her silently as she crosses the room, sliding her eyes slowly to the figure slumped against the opposite wall, locking eyes, her face revealing nothing, a carefully constructed mask of indifference, her full mouth an ugly thin line marring her face. She leans into her and notices how the action is almost unconscious, like Wes, and Harry, feeling indescribably safe despite the circumstances having altered minimally on the whole. Strangely, she finds she does not want to leave her, and thinks that worse than silence, worse still than venomous words inflicted, is the unimaginable idea that she should leave Ruth to Angela.

She sees her mouth form the words _go, _but fails to actually hear them through the numbing buzzing within her head. Sensing her indecision, Ruth gently places a hand on her arm, softly squeezing, again whispering _go, _her eyes soft and gentle, the quick nod in the direction of the threshold empty behind them meant to emphasize her wish. She hesitates still, glancing towards Angela and is struck by the intuition that this moment is what she has been waiting for, whatever else her motivations, this specific moment with Ruth was primary, the need for such derived from some deeply shared personal stain shared between them, and not meant for her to participate. She understood it would not be stopped, saw the nature of it as runaway, barreling towards a conclusion only imagined, yet moments away from occurring.

She feels the imprint of Ruth's hand on her arm as she reenters the Grid, places her hand on top of the imagined heat as though in doing so she remains still with her in spirit, in solidarity, visualizing her strength traversing the distance and immersing itself into Ruth, intertwining with her own, bolstering and infinite. She says nothing, dropping into the first vacant chair, feeling the skin peel back from her eyes, rocking unconsciously, and she looks beyond herself from a place that seems very small inside her, that place where 'Joanna' lives, whose worst difficulty once upon a time was deciding between red or white with dinner, who understands the truth of what Angela had said with eyes that see this new lessened manifestation of herself, the one that could resent her mother's illness, the one who has been taught how, and worse, learned to embrace the justifications she would use to placate and absolve herself in turns.

It is with great internal effort that she closes that door inside herself, shutting herself against the knowing eyes of that 'Joanna,' emerging from the shadows, reborn, the metaphorical phoenix burst from flame, alive in flight, soaring, watching the ashes of herself fall away, and dissolve.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	15. Chap15: Hunigsuce

**A/N: Just a bit of housekeeping. I always thought it interesting that Angela Wells never intended to blow up Thames House. I think she simply wanted answers from Ruth. Had I been in Ruth's shoes, I'd have been more disturbed by having revealed things which proved entirely unnecessary. But, whatever KUDOS. I can work with it. I'm rubbish with official document language, so willing suspension is encouraged. I've chosen a format which is a bit of departure for me, and hope it doesn't prove complete folly. Please enjoy, and leave a review if you've a mind.**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**"**_Before I die alone _

_Before my time has gone _

_There's just one thing I have to do _

_Before the fire and stone _

_Before your world is gone _

_Have you some patience _

_Cuz I will have my vengeance _

_Before I die alone _

_Let me have vengeance _

_Before my time has gone _

_I will have vengeance"_

-Vengeance, Zack Hemsley

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPTS**

**Debriefing of R. Evershed, Senior Analyst, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5, events substantive to hours coinciding unplanned lock down occurring within Section D, Counter-Terrorism/MI5 Grid commencing at approximately 6PM, 11 November 2005, and extending until approximately 9:12AM, 12 November 2005.**

**Summary Notes:**

***_The following report contains transcripts of recorded conversation occurring between R. Evershed, Senior Analyst, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5, and A. Wells, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5, Agent, Retired._

_***The following suggests clandestine activities, a.k.a. Black Op, surrounding the possible involvement of unnamed members belonging to various levels of British Security Services in the circumstances surrounding the death of PD, 31 August 1997, Paris, France, fatal car collision. _

_***The following confirms R. Evershed in possession of believed NO EYES document. There is further suggestion R. Evershed availed herself the contents and subject matter contained within document. While it is unclear the circumstances providing her said document, the conclusion it was unsolicited appears valid. Her actions constitute a grievous infraction of standard protocol subject to potential criminal prosecution. _

_***The assumption the NO EYES document in question was provided R. Evershed by A. Wells, while not confirmed in this transcript by either party, remains the most likely, and accepted theory. The means by which A. Wells came into possession of the same remains undisclosed. Her actions are subject to potential criminal prosecution under the Terrorism Act. _

_***The following alludes strongly to the unwarranted surveillance of R. Evershed, to include her person and present dwelling, suggesting origination of such both covert and instituted by unnamed factions with the British Security Services. Investigation is pending at the time of transcription._

_***The following suggests a previously undisclosed personal relationship existing between R. Evershed and H. Pearce, Section Head, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5. It further suggests evidence contained in said unlawful surveillance supports this conclusion. It should be noted all evidence of surveillance is unavailable at the time of this transcription. In the absence of evidence confirming the aforementioned preexisting relationship, its absolute existence should be interpreted strictly as speculative in nature._

_***The following includes discussion of Peter Haigh, Former Royal Guard, PD Detail, Decommissioned, Deceased, Self Inflicted. It should be noted the date of his demise coincides exactly the dates in which this incursion occurred._

_***The following includes discussion of Daniel Evershed, Physician, Father of R. Evershed, Deceased, Natural Causes._

_***The following includes discussion of David Haigh, Architect, Father of Peter Haigh and Elizabeth Evershed Haigh, Spouse, Mother of R. Evershed. Both alive at the time of this transcription._

_***It should be noted each statement is preceeded by the name of speaker indicated as identified to transcriber, the statement appearing in italics. Any additional necessary information provided by transcriber deemed relevant and/or necessary for inclusion is provided, and designated parenthetically. All redactions are at the express direction of H. Pearce, Section Head, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5._

_***This document, its contents and details, are granted the highest security level given to state secrets; Any breach of confidentiality, protocol, or misappropriation therein will be viewed an act of treason, and subject to criminal prosecution._

A. Wells: _"Are you trying to get us all killed?"_

R. Evershed: _"I'm not the one holding a detonator, Angela." (extended pause) Why have you done this?"_

A. Wells: _"I should think that obvious, Ruth. I want answers. I've wanted them for a long time, now._"

R. Evershed: _"To what, Angela? This isn't about Harry. Or, some clandestine committee. You can't possibly have believed the services capable-" (subject interrupted, remaining statement indecipherable)_

A. Wells: _"But you did, didn't you? Don't deny that you thought he could do it. Don't insult us both by suggesting that the very idea of it didn't turn your blood cold; And don't pretend you don't know the reasons why it would matter so much. To you, especially you, Ruth." (subject is believed to be referring to H. Pearce)_

R. Evershed: _"What are-" (subject interrupted, remaining statement indecipherable)_

A. Wells: _"Do you believe last night was the first time I broke into your home? Do you honestly believe there isn't a reason why you were chosen? You specifically, Ruth? Go on, give it a minute, it'll come to you. There's not much left that is secret anymore, least of all that." (subject speaking appears to laugh)_

R. Evershed: _"Cameras?"_

A. Wells: _"Several."_

R. Evershed: _"How long?"_

A. Wells: _"Long enough, Ruth."_

R. Evershed: _"You put them there?"_

A. Wells: _"That, and more, if I'm honest." (nine visual surveillance devices have been confirmed present. The existence of audio devices present remains unconfirmed at the time of this transcription. Any further conformation of such existing, see addendum.) _

R. Evershed: _"For whom?"_

A. Wells: _"No. Your turn."_

R. Evershed: _"To what? My turn to what, Angela?"_

A. Wells: _"Answer my questions, of course."_

_(R. Evershed does not offer any response. It is assumed some manner of physical motion indicated her continued participation.) _

A. Wells: _"I'll take that as assent?"_

R. Evershed: _"Take it whatever way that suits you, Angela."_

A. Wells: _"Did you love him?" ( the person in question remains unnamed, but subsequent statements suggest a reference to Peter Haigh)_

R. Evershed: _"Why does this matter? Tell me you haven't put hundreds of lives at risk for the sake of asking this?"_

A. Wells: _"Oh, but I have, Ruth, for that sake and more, make no mistake. I'm curious, do you ever feel responsible for his death? Do you ever wonder the reasons he would chose to decorate the wall with his brains, Ruth?" ( subject confirms earlier statement referencing Peter Haigh as factual)_

R. Evershed: _"I didn't give him the gun-" (subject interrupted, remaining statement indecipherable)_

A. Wells: _"But you killed him just the same. Your indifference, your refusal to speak to him, help him, as potent as any gun in his hand." (subject providing clear reference to Peter Haigh, deceased, suicide, single gunshot)_

R. Evershed: _"No. He was sick, Angela. Had been for some time. He needed help. Help I couldn't give him, and you should have. You say you loved him and yet you did nothing-" (subject interrupted, remaining statement indecipherable)_

A. Wells: _"Nothing? I did nothing? Oh, that's rich, that really is. I stood by him when everyone else turned their backs. Including you. I only ever wanted him to be happy. So simple, Ruth. And you, always there in his head, I couldn't compete. Did you know I celebrated when you dropped away. I bloody thanked the heavens not to have to suffer you, watch as you continued to eat at him." (subject becoming noticeably agitated, intermittently raised voice, sounds conducive to physical movement present)_

R. Evershed: _"No, Angela. You can't have it both ways. Not today. I'll not be blamed for presence and absence. Try another tact. That one is too well worn to prove effective anymore." (subject alludes to previous confrontational interactions with speaker, history of such unconfirmed at time of this transcription)_

A. Wells: _"That so? Well, how's this? Is the guilt you feel for Peter the same or different in measure from the guilt associated with killing your father? Tell me Ruth, what does it taste like?_" _(subject referring to Daniel Evershed, physician, deceased, natural causes)_

R. Evershed: _"How could you have imagined he could ever love the creature you are? What does that taste like? What is the specific flavor of unrequited?" (subject confirms reference to Peter Haigh)_

A. Wells: _"Good. Very good. Sour, but one gets used to it. You will, I've no doubt on that score."_

R. Evershed: _"I've little desire to hurt you, Angela. Please, give me the detonator, and I'll-" (subject interrupted, remaining statement indecipherable)_

A. Wells: _"Do you feel that, Ruth? Do you know what that is? Its a feeling I'm quite intimately familiar with you could say. Dangerously tricky thing, surveillance. The things one picks up, the kind of tells that are present every day, and yet somehow magnified through a lens. Revealed through unsuspected intrusion. Rather like love, that. The intrusion, the assault. You understand he discards everything, always has done?" (the 'he' to whom subject refers remains undisclosed)_

_(R. Evershed does not respond to statement, silence for approximately two minutes, eleven-seconds)_

R. Evershed: _"As I've told you, he didn't take part in a planned assassination. It was worst case scenario, Angela. That's all. Peter was wrong." (it is assumed subject refers to H. Pearce, Section Head, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5)_

A. Wells: _"God, Ruth, open your eyes."_

R. Evershed: _"My eyes are open, Angela, and all I see before me is a completely preventable tragedy. I know you miss him, and I know you think I'm to blame. That's...that's fine. We can still fix this, just let us help you."_

: _"You can help me by telling me the truth, Ruth."_

_(extended silence, approximately one minute, fifteen-seconds in length)_

R. Evershed: _"There is something...something I need to tell you. Something that happened when he was twenty, and I was eighteen." (subject confirms reference to Peter Haigh)_

A. Wells: _"You...You slept with him. Is that what you're trying to tell me?" ( the existence of a sexual relationship between R. Evershed and P. Haigh remains unconfirmed at the time of this transcription)_

R. Evershed: _"There were rows. At home. His father wasn't getting on with my mother, Peter was attending Uni, and it was getting worse with just me at home." (subject refers to David Haigh, Architect, Father, Peter Haigh, and Elizabeth Evershed Haigh, Spouse, Mother, R. Evershed)_

_(interference heard over listening device characteristic of physical movement, silence, approximately forty-one seconds in length)_

R. Evershed: _"He came home one weekend, and we just...we left together. Ran away to Blackpool-" (subject speaking interrupted)_

A. Wells: _"Blackpool. You ended up in Blackpool. He told me...I remember...He took you away...He felt guilty for not being there. He wanted to save you. You're using him, even now."_

R. Evershed: _"No. Much as you'd like to believe, I never used him. We...We ended up staying at about the only B&amp;B still open. It was cold, middle of winter."_

A. Wells: _"How long? How many days? He said he only drove around..."_

R. Evershed: _"Several. It was several days, Angela. Almost a full week. When we returned there were terrible rows. Strangely, it brought our parents closer. Me...I just left. I just couldn't...You see, it shouldn't have been our parents who met. It should have been Peter and Me. And he always drank, worse after that, but he was drunk almost the entire time in Blackpool. I was drunk with him. He couldn't stop, didn't want to. Neither did I, if I'm honest."_

A. Wells: _"He was always a dreamer-" (subject speaking interrupted)_

R. Evershed: _"And in love with me, Angela. Always. Never you. Not for a moment."_

A. Wells_: "No." (nearly inaudible)_

R. Evershed: _"Yes. You want to know why he drank? You think it was because he dreamed of a world that didn't exist? The truth is likely far more painful, Angela. He drank, Angela, because he couldn't bear the guilt of not loving you. Or, the guilt of loving me. Take your pick. You think I turned my back on him, but did you ever once ask yourself why he never failed to pull the overnight detail those months before he was decommissioned? The one part of his life that he was allowed to claim his own? The solitary place where you were prevented from following?"_

A. Wells: _"Shut up."_

R. Evershed: _"Because he was with me, Angela. All those times, and plenty more before, you thought him sitting sentry, guarding Diana? He was with me, in my home, in my bed, in my arms, and you the furthest thing from his mind."_

A. Wells: _"Stop." (nearly inaudible)_

R. Evershed: _"No! You wanted answers, isn't that what this entire charade is about, your answers? Hundreds of lives at risk for the sake of your bloody answers? You strapped a bomb to the wrist of my colleague, Angela; A woman whose nothing to do with this, none of them have! Its just you and me, Angela, and all the answers you could ever want to choke yourself with. Its all there, provided you can stomach it. Go on, take it, you know you want to. I know the spook inside you is screaming for you to do it. Tell me, how do you like holding a bomb designed specifically for you? You taste that? Its called irony."_

_(subject speaking confirmed possession of cell phone formerly belonging to Peter Haigh, *see official debrief_)

A. Wells: _"What is this?"_

R. Evershed: _"His phone. The one you didn't know about. The one we used. I've had it since I watched you dragged half mad into TRING. You remember that, don't you? When you first told me I had killed him? I've a little scar as memento I''m sure you've noticed before."_

A. Wells: _"You did kill him."_

R. Evershed: _"I think you'll find the evidence contained within that phone suggests otherwise. And to quote you, Angela, I know the spook inside you is asking 'what if.'"_

A. Wells: _"You've kept it? All this time?"_

R. Evershed: _"You want to know. I know you do. What if, Angela?"_

A. Wells: _"I'm to guess the password?"_

R. Evershed: _"4-8-6-4-4-7-8-2-3"_

A. Wells: _"What does it mean? A code?"_

R. Evershed: _"A word. Old English. Shall I provide clues? A favorite of hummingbirds. Clings to its habitat like a lover's embrace. Intoxicating in scent, thought to symbolize passion, affection, eternal in strength and tenacity. Should I go on, or have you guessed? I can tell by your face you've more than a suspicion. Go on, it'll come to you."_

A. Wells: _"H-U-N-I-G-S-U-C-E." (meaning and origin of word confirmed correct as described, specific relevance to interaction remains unclear)_

R. Evershed: _"I don't want to hurt you, Angela. Even so, I can't, will not, allow you to hurt anyone else. Do you understand?"_

A. Wells: _"Honeysuckle."_

R. Evershed: _"Yes." _

A. Wells: _"He...He wrote all this? The entire...He never...For you?"_

_R. Evershed: "Yes. All of it. Months and months, in fact. I've another, as well. A diary, really. He never intended to ever marry you, Angela. He didn't love you. Now, you've the proof you've wanted. Give me the detonator. Now. Please, Angela. Its done. We're done."_

_(subjects are silent for two minutes, twenty-six seconds in length.)_

R. Evershed:_ "No, don't..."_

_(R. Evershed confirms A. Wells depressed hand held detonator at this time, resulting in no detonation, despite understood intention explosive device was actively armed)_

***Recorded interaction concludes absent casualties, or further statements from both parties.

****ADDENDUM****

**13 November 2005**

_***Angela Wells, Deceased, Self Inflicted*. _

_***Explosive device placed within Royal Bunker by A. Wells diffused without incident._

_***Adam Carter, Section Chief, Active, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5, sustained gunshot wound to chest, survived, placed on leave for recuperative period of approximately six (6) weeks as recommended by treating medical physician._

_***At this time, no formal charges will be brought against R. Evershed, Senior Analyst, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5._

_***Visual/Audio Surveillance confirmed to exist within dwelling belonging to R. Evershed, and removed by M. Wynn-Jones, Senior Technician, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5._

_***Documentation associated with illegal surveillance remains unaccounted for, but believed to exist._

_***An investigation regarding the involvement of J. Wells, Security Coordinator, London Desk, UK, was instituted, results pending at time of addendum._

_***All extraneous documents, materials, and minutes associated/regarding the Contingent Events Committee, including contraband No Eyes micro film, excepting this document, destroyed. Witnessed by O. Mace, H. Pearce, N. Blake, and M. Collingwood._

_***Suggested relationship existing between H. Pearce and R. Evershed remains unconfirmed at time of addendum. All evidence suggesting otherwise remains undisclosed at time of addendum._

_***Investigation surrounding the involvement of additional persons undisclosed as participants remains open, and ongoing at time of addendum. _

_***This document, its contents and details, are granted the highest security level given to state secrets; Any breach of confidentiality, protocol, or misappropriation therein will be viewed an act of treason, and subject to criminal prosecution._

**_EVENT DEBRIEF, Pending Official _**

**_12 November 2005._**

**_6:00 PM_**

**_The following contains transcripts detailing official event debrief of R. Evershed, Senior Analyst, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5 conducted by H. Pearce, Section Head, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5 the events on and surrounding 11 November 2005 and 12 November 2005._**

_***This document, its contents and details, are granted the highest security level given to state secrets; Any breach of confidentiality, protocol, or misappropriation therein will be viewed an act of treason, and subject to criminal prosecution._

_***Contents are provided verbatim. Additional notations are presented parenthetically in the event such is determined necessary. _

_***Participants are noted by corresponding initials, followed by statements provided._

***_All redactions are at the express direction of H. Pearce, Section Head, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5._

**HP:** For the purposes of recording device, present are Henry James Pearce, Section Head, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5, and Ruth Elizabeth Evershed, Senior Analyst, Section D, Counter Terrorism/MI5. Debrief is being conducted at Thames House, Interrogation Room 4; The date is 12 November 2005; The time approximately 6:00 PM.

**HP: ** Would you care for anything to drink before we begin, Ruth?

**RE:** I'm fine, thank you, no.

**HP:** All right, we'll begin then. Can you provide the details relevant to your possession of a contraband NO EYES micro dot film detailing the activities surrounding the Contingent Events Committee?

**RE:** It was provided by Angela Wells.

**HP:** Had you solicited said micro dot film, or information provided therein, at any time previous to taking possession?

**RE:** No, I had not.

**HP:** Continue, please.

**RE:** I feel as though I should have a solicitor.

**HP: ** I'm sorry?

**RE:** If I'm to be interrogated, Harry, I want a solicitor, as is my right.

**HP: ** _This_, Ruth, is a debrief. As such, it is categorically _not _within your rights to have a solicitor present. _Please continue._

(subject remains uncommunicative. A period of silence extends for approximately two minutes, thirty-four seconds.)

**HP:** _Ruth._ You are, at this exact moment, facing substantial criminal charges, including, though not limited to, accusations of treason. Do you think it wise to choose stubborn insolence as a means to defend yourself?

**RE:** If I'm expected to defend myself, as _you_ say, then it would seem I've been judged guilty, and in need of a solicitor.

**HP:** God dammit, Ruth! I'm trying to help you here! We've already established you were in possession of a document you had no business being in possession of! Of that, you are guilty, and no amount of argumentative semantics will alter that fact. Neither will the presence of a solicitor. Just...Please, you have to trust me. Continue.

**RE:** Yes I had the micro dot film. Yes, I read the contents. No, I did not in any way imaginable solicit possession from Angela Wells, or anyone else, for that matter.

**HP:** Good. That's good. Just stay with me, I know this is...difficult for-

**RE:** You've no fucking idea, Harry.

**HP:** All right. Describe the details surrounding the exchange of said micro dot film. Please.

**RE:** I came home, noticed the slip of paper wasn't where I left it in the door, and I knew someone had broken into my home. I didn't know whether they were still inside or not. I entered, and-

**HP:** Let me stop you there. I don't...Why...If you didn't know if they were still present...Why did you...Why didn't you call...Me? Why would you take such a stupid risk, Ruth?

**RE:** Because it is my home, Harry. _My_ _home_...And then you would have...known. So, fine. Let's entertain this, shall we? What would you have done? What, exactly, is the first bloody thing you would have done if I had rung round? Think about it. What then?

**HP:** What would _I_ have done? I would have made damn sure you were safe! I would have gotten you out of there, away, and made-

**RE:** -Me give up my home. You would have demanded I sacrifice it, and move to a secured MI5 flat. You know it, and I know it. I won't allow it, regardless of what we've agreed on. For the record.

**HP:** Ruth-

**RE:** No. Do you want to hear the rest, or not?

**HP:** Fine, but this subject is far from closed, so you understand.

**RE:** Of course it isn't. Not at all settled because you will force _your_ way, whether I want it or not. You'll hardly suffer less, and leave me with little option in the end. You're exceptionally gifted at that.

(both subjects remain silent for approximately four minutes, twenty-three seconds.)

**RE:** I discovered Angela sitting in my front room, in the dark. She suggested that I get Malcolm to up my security system. I think she was trying to determine if Malcolm was still with the services. At a guess, with all that we know now, I imagine she was trying to fathom who would be tasked to disarm the bomb in the Royal bunker once we discovered her real intentions. Maybe, I don't know.

**HP:** Makes sense, yes.

**RE:** I set about making us tea. Silly, really. She breaks into my home and the first thing I do is offer her tea.

**HP:** You were caught off guard, Ruth. You shared a...history, is all.

**RE:** Oh, yes. A history. Cat's well and truly out of that personal bag, now isn't it?

(subject remains silent for twenty-seven seconds in length)

**RE:** Anyway, she was going on about nothing really, and I was...I was irritated...with her...with myself for allowing her to stay-

**HP:** Why did you? Allow her to stay?

**RE:** Curiosity, I guess? Yeah, curiosity. She'd just turned up, in the middle of the night, on my couch, and I...was suspicious, of course. But it was curiosity, really. I needed to know why, and thought if I just wait her out, she'd reveal the purpose of her visit when she was ready. I was right in that, in the end.

**HP:** How did the Committee come up?

**RE:** She was talking about...Peter.

**HP:** You're referring to Peter Haigh, to be clear?

**RE:** Yes. His anniversary. A year since...I had forgotten, if I'm honest. I don't know how, really? I had thought that day would always live within...But, truth is, I'd completely forgotten. She had this, I don't know, morbid need to relive it. Right then. Wanted to share it with me somehow. It made me want to retch. Her hand was bleeding. Her palm, I remember. She kept picking at it, but, in away that was, ummm, it was completely unconscious. Her fingers were red. Told me she had asked him to marry her, and he'd refused her. I gave the impression it was news to me, but it wasn't. Not really. I felt sorry for her, despite her unceremonious arrival. I thought she wanted to, no,_ needed_ to talk about him, so I swallowed my discomfort and suited myself to appear surprised if she decided on a lengthy recitation of all the things I already knew about him. Well, them. Both.

**HP:** I wish you had called me, Ruth.

**RE:** The truth is, I thought about it. Its not that it didn't occur to me. It did. When I was making tea, and she was nosing around my front room, I could hear her picking around, almost talking to herself. I should have...I thought, if I text him, how would she know? And I knew you would find a way in before alerting her. But, I just...its my home, Harry. And at that point, at that point I had no reason to be afraid, really. Strange as that sounds now. But then, it struck me a little too Chicken Little. I just couldn't stomach the idea that you would be given any reason to think me...weak.

**HP:** Never, Ruth. Not in any circumstance that I could imagine would I ever consider you weak. Not ever.

**RE:** You say that now. After everything that's happened, its easy to say now, maybe. But then, before it all started gathering steam, you would have only needed to look at me, and your eyes would reveal what your head and heart knew to be true. They always do, Harry. Your eyes. I can read them, even when others can't.

(subjects are silent for one minute, thirteen-seconds in length)

**HP:** My eyes, Ruth, would have borne out that I was relieved, is all. That you were safe and healthy. I only ever want all of you to come back safe. The only real fear I consistently experience is one associated, irrevocably, with one of you not returning to me, the Grid. I face it everyday.

**RE:** I don't know how. I can't imagine-

**HP:** Nor would I want you too. Any of you.

(subjects are silent for approximately two minutes, twelve-seconds)

**RE:** She said he, umm, Peter, had been murdered by the services. Covered up, made to look like a suicide She said it was because he knew too much. That's the exact phrase she used. He knew too much and required elimination. It was lunacy, really. I was...I was dumbstruck. I said as much, and that's when she produced the micro dot. Just reached her bloodied fingers into her mouth and pulled it out. I don't think she even saw the blood. She offered it to me, palm up, and said I would need to find a micro dot reader. Like it was a biscuit with tea. I should have known...Oh...

(subject is silent for approximately forty-three seconds)

**HP:** Ruth?

**RE:** I can't believe I didn't put it together. The surveillance? Of course, how else would she know I had the micro dot reader? There, I mean. Its so bloody obvious, isn't it? She had been monitoring me the entire time. How could I have missed it? I mean, yes, I had thought there was something, I don't know, off, a little, in the house. Like I could sense something had altered, but I couldn't identify it, you know? Just little things, books moved, pictures turned a bit, things only I would notice, but easily disregarded, chalked up to paranoia. But she had been sneaking in regularly, hadn't she? Admitted it, hadn't she? Not enough to record me, she had to touch me in some way, move me about, do it in such a way as to ensure I was always just left of center, off balance without understanding why.

**HP:** Ruth, she was the best at psychological warfare. That was not me awarding empty praise when I referred to her skills in that regard. There have been precious few who were her equal, and thankfully, they did not break the way she obviously did. What you are describing is sadly similar to every directive she ever received. You're not the first, but mercifully, you are certainly the last to suffer it. And you survived, Ruth. You survived the best she had to offer. Don't forget that.

**RE:** I wish I had never looked at it, Harry. But I just couldn't...I couldn't not look at it. Like refusing to do so would have been the same as admitting defeat. Bravado, I'm ashamed to admit now. So I got the micro dot reader. I can't even remember why I had the bloody thing to begin with, but I did, and so I read the dot. I did. I read it, and she sat there coaxing me through it. Knew all the things to say. She just smiled. That cold, dead smile of hers, and her voice could have melted butter.

**HP:** Did you ever ask how she came into possession of it? The micro dot film?

**RE:** She said Peter gave it to her. Which I knew couldn't have been true. He would never have given her something that...that, well, potentially explosive. He _would_ have given it to me. I knew it the minute she said it, Harry. So, naturally, I asked where he'd gotten ahold of it, more out of curiosity than any idea she'd tell me the truth.

**HP:** Go on.

**RE:** She said Peter had been given it by Diana herself. It just got more outlandish with every statement. So, I asked how she'd gotten it, Diana, and Angela said something about her being a very clever woman. It was...surreal.

**HP:** Okay, so you're reading the micro dot film...

**RE:** Yes, and I was fine. I was. I was reading it, and asking her to verify what I was reading. I asked her if she understood that we were committing treason, more to force her to admit it aloud, like it made some measure of difference. She made some flippant remark about secreting it in her tooth, and against my better judgement...really, because all the alarms in my head were ringing off their hinges by then, daring me to stop, making it so bloody hard to think clearly. I just kept thinking this is insane, truly mad, she's completely mad. And then...And then I...

(subjects are silent for approximately fifty-six seconds)

**HP:** Say it, Ruth. You have to say it.

**RE:** I...I saw...There was your name. Your name, Harry. Harry Pearce, Chairman, it read. You were there, part of it, right there. You'd killed her, if, if the dot was to be believed. You'd had a part in killing her. I...Said your name...Out loud, I remember. She verified it. She seemed to take great pleasure in it. I didn't, couldn't understand why? Why would she relish this? And she did. She all but glowed with it. I thought, maybe, there was some history between you, something that she was seeking some kind of vengeance for? Some op gone tits up, or directive that found you at cross purposes? But then why involve me, or Peter, for that matter? It was all swirling around my head, and I couldn't make it stop, be still enough to line up, puzzle it out. So obvious now, isn't it. Not so much the _why_ me, but more how could it _not _be me, right? Given the surveillance...

**HP:** Yes. Hindsight has a way of making idiots of us all, Ruth. You couldn't have known for sure. Not then, anyway.

**RE:** See? You're wrong there, Harry. Its not as though we are completely faultless, you and me. I may never have given voice to the risks, but that doesn't lessen their existence, doesn't mitigate our choosing to take them, does it? We can't hide from each other that fact, surely.

**HP:** No. We can't, Ruth. I'm so very sorry-

**RE:** Don't tell me your sorry, Harry. Please not that. Not ever. I'd never in a million years chose an alternate path. My eyes are open. Always have been. I wanted it, as much as you. It may not have always been clear...to you. But it was, to me. I can't remember a time it wasn't, to be honest.

(subjects are silent for approximately six minutes, thirty-two seconds)

**HP:** I'm not sorry about...it. I wouldn't change it for anything, truly. Its the circumstances, Ruth. I regret the circumstances, the loss of something so simple and, well, normal, I guess. I won't ever...it can't ever be normal. I'd hoped for...something close, but this...this situation illustrates how it will always be. Despite that, I need you to know, I want it still. That hasn't diminished. I can't imagine it ever will. I need you to know that.

**RE:** I do. I want...Harry, I can't, now, in a debriefing. Not now. Anyone can read-

**HP:** No, you're right, of course. Thoughtless of me. I'll...I'll take care of it.

**RE:** No. Just, now's not the time. Surely you-

**HP:** Okay.

**RE:** Okay. Good. Ummm, well, she suggested that I start investigating the circumstances of Diana's death, specifically your diary for the dates in question. She wanted to get actual proof beyond the micro dot. Wanted me to help her. Wanted to go to the press, out the _greatest_ _scandal of the age_. Her words. Destroy the services altogether. I refused, of course. Told her she had quite gone mad, in fact. She said I owed it to Peter, to investigate the man who had him killed. You. At that point, I just wanted an end to it. I demanded she leave. To her credit, she did, though not before goading me on, suggesting that in my spook heart I wanted to know the truth as much as she did. I repeated the same thing back to her in the tech suite, _I know you want to, what if, what if, Angela._ You couldn't have known that then, but it served the same purpose. It broke her as I expected it would. Wanted it to, if I'm truly honest with myself. I wanted to hurt her, and I had the exact weapon with which to do it.

**HP:** The cell phone?

**RE:** Yes. And the truth it told. Her bloody answers. It was Peter's. I'd kept it. Couldn't even say why exactly now. Contained everything within it to break her apart. I remembered it in my desk when Malcolm was fixing the device. I'd forgotten it was there until that exact moment. He whispered he was sorry. I hadn't known when I took it that I would have future need to use it in such a way, but I could, and I did, obviously. If you had looked at me, even once, Harry, you would have...well, but you didn't, so...Honeysuckle. Only the three of us understood the multi layered meaning. Amazing, one word, the damage wrought. Just a word. There's our history, the crux, the dregs circling the bottom. Such a waste, all of it.

**HP:** Complicated, your history. The word, he chose it, as a password, that is?

**RE:** Yes. It's not relevant to this, really. Or, maybe it is, because of what I did with it? To Angela. It has a symbolic meaning, which I alluded to with Angela. But, also, it means something else, which became the proverbial straw a long, long time ago. He called me his _hunigsuce_, pronouncing it as it would have been years ago. It was funny, a joke we shared, the pronunciation. It was a nickname of sorts, and an emblem. He might have slipped in front of her, referred to me by nickname. He might have done, I couldn't know for certain, but it seems likely. The more he drank, the more he lost track of himself. He varied his terms of affection over the years, sometimes _hunigsuce_, sometimes _hummingbird_, his variation on my family nickname, _bird_. I've never told you that, have I? So, you can see why the combination was rather toxic to Angela. It confirmed something I think she had always suspected, but didn't want to know. I never called him by anything but Peter, now that I think about it, and I guess I never thought it necessary. Our history, him and me, was enough. He was a dreamer, she was right on that score. Poetic and unfeasibly sensitive, gave his heart easily. Too easily, sadly to me. And he fancied private jokes, nicknames. It had been he and I for so long it became unavoidable. He used to say he couldn't breathe with her.

**HP:** Had he always been in love with you?

**RE:** Yes. That part was true.

**HP: ** And you?

**RE:** No. I think it more correct to describe it as in love with the idea of being in love. No, that's not entirely true either. Yes, I did love him, with all my heart. But I was never _in love_ with him, if that makes any sense. I loved him for all he was to me, for all he tried to do for me, for all he wanted to be to me. I thought it a truer form of love. It sounds more obligatory than passionate, but it wasn't initially. It became..well, it didn't seem to matter in any case. He was fond of saying he'd love enough for both of us. Maybe he did. And there were other...circumstances I'd just as soon not get into presently. They aren't immediately relevant to this, umm, exercise.

**HP:** That's fine. Fine. So, lets go back to Angela leaving. What did you do afterwards?

**RE:** Afterwards? Ummm, in truth I just sat there. I could feel the walls kind of caving in on me; Or, breathing, really. It was, I'd say, maybe two hours since I had arrived home and the sudden silence was becoming uncomfortable. My mind just wouldn't shut down. You know what I mean. I kept picturing your name behind my eyes and I knew she had been right, I wanted to know the truth, I wanted to believe you couldn't have done what she had accused you of. I wanted to believe I knew you better than I did, but I don't really, do I? There's so much I will never know for a certainty.

**HP:** There are things of which I can never tell another soul, Ruth. Its the nature of our profession, my position requires that I'm set apart from the rest. It's for the best. The danger I pose to others magnifies exponentially were I to reveal all that I know, have seen, have done. My distance, or secrets as you call them, is one of the few avenues afforded me to ensure the safety of those I've an affection for. No one will ever know the whole of me, and the few who have dared, my children, my ex-wife, have suffered the consequences of trying. You learn to guard against it in this world of ours. You could say I've rather failed where you-

**RE:** It wasn't meant as criticism, Harry. Really. I'm just trying to relate to the best of my recollection the events, is all. I knew my mind wouldn't allow me to sleep, that I would just stare at the ceiling wishing for sleep, but finding none. I wanted to call you, but couldn't, wouldn't allow myself to. I thought, well, I thought if I set my mind to puzzling it all out, busying myself with something to distract me, I would eventually decide on a course of action. So, I cleaned the base of my toilet with Angela's scarf. And then the basin, and the tiles surrounding. Ruined a perfectly good toothbrush.

**HP:** That was inventive of you.

**RE:** Maybe, but it didn't work. Her scarf _is_ rubbish, though. Not that she'd any need of it now. Perhaps I should enshrine it? God, that sounded so cruel? It did, didn't it? I'm not usually...Never mind. I ran a bath, and while that soothed my muscles to an extent, it did nothing to quiet my mind. Her unexpected visit had disturbed a number of memories, the kind I normally have control over, and they all intertwined themselves with the micro dot, and you, and I just sort of succumbed to it. I didn't have the energy left to fight it, so I just gave in. About that time I thought a drink would be a good idea. You smile, but it was really a very bad idea. Once I started, I never stopped. I thought about calling you then. Again. I wanted to hear...But I knew if I did then you would ask questions, and I would be hard pressed to outmaneuver you, even by phone, and I was good and pissed by then, so I couldn't say if I would have begged you to come over or not. But, I wanted you...to be there...with me. Just to, oh God, I don't know, make me feel better? Make me feel...something else? Tell me all the reasons she'd gotten it so fantastically wrong? And you would have, you'd have had me believing you in mere minutes. You're very good at...But I was lucid enough to stop myself.

**HP:** Okay. Ruth, I...well, continue. Please.

**RE:** Well, here's where it gets a little fuzzy. I realized that I could destroy the micro dot. And being in a somewhat compromised state, I had resolved to do it, had been moving towards the kitchen, nicked my shin on the table. I've a huge bruise, by the way, before I realized that I couldn't make myself go through with it, no matter how much I may have wanted to. That was it, really. Well, honestly, what I remember. Then, I think I just passed out, and I woke up on the floor not too much later. The sky was beginning to lighten. I heard birds. I love the birds in the morning, their tittering back and forth. I lay there in the quiet every morning and listen to them as I wake up. Something infinitely calming to me, the close early morning silence pierced by birdsong. This morning, I envied their ability to fly away. The micro dot was still in my hand. My nails had formed a frame of sorts around it. I'd never even let it go, let alone destroyed it. I did the only thing I could do, at that point; I came to work.

**HP:** And your trips to Registry and archives?

**RE:** Oh, right. Well, I thought if Angela wanted me to prove you were complicit, then I could just as easily determine to prove you were not. It made sense at the time, short of destroying it altogether. So, I began to investigate, and the more I investigated, the more it became clear that either scenario could be proven, just a matter of motive and perspective. I'll tell you, Harry, that really left me feeling rather buggered. Because it just couldn't be easy, could it? Normally, I would have relished the challenge. Always have done, but this wasn't normal, was it? This was you, and Peter, and me and Angela, and it was all so close, so suffocating, I couldn't breathe, and every angle I investigated left me more at odds with everything I had come to depend on. It left me gutted, and I was reacting, as much to myself as my objective intentions. Emotional, I was too emotionally tied to any result. Finally, I asked Adam if he'd any knowledge with the Contingent Events Committee, and he said he didn't. Ironically, he suggested I ask you, said you loved clandestine. That's a direct quote, _Harry loves clandestine_.

**HP:** Well, that's true. Although my preference is when they involve other people, not myself. So you didn't tell Adam about Angela? The micro dot, her intrusion?

**RE:** No. Not then. I just asked that he keep it to himself. Actually, I said that I would talk to you directly, and that he should just forget I mentioned it. They were all keen to head over to The George. Then Juliet walked in with Angela on her arm, and the world turned upside down.

**HP:** Had you any knowledge of what she had planned? Had she at any time alluded to the Royals, or her intention to detonate explosives, be it within Thames or the Royal Bunker?

**RE:** No, none at all. As far as I'd assumed, her presence had everything to do with the micro dot, and my refusal to help her. She'd upped the ante by manipulating a way to deal with it herself, on the Grid, and she was going to out me in the process. I imagine the idea was to divide us all, and conquer. I'd no idea the depths still hidden. By which I mean I'd no idea the mechanism at work orchestrating the event, which seems part of a larger whole yet to be revealed. Well, I suspected as much.

**HP:** I wouldn't argue against that particular suspicion. Yet, if memory serves, you remained quiet. Had you ever any intention of coming to me directly? Or, was that a fob off?

**RE:** I don't know, Harry. Adam was furious with me. Asking me why I didn't say anything? All I could offer was guilt. On the one hand I wanted to know the truth, and the most direct route was asking you. Well, the most direct route to announce my desire to know was to ask you. There was no way you would ever tell me the truth, even if I came to you directly. We both know that. You would have done exactly what you did, deny any knowledge, and I would have done exactly what I did, investigate it anyway.

**HP:** Creatures of habit. The services are rife with them.

**RE:** Yes. But also, I couldn't reconcile the idea that the person I thought I knew was the same person who would suborn the kind of black op described on the micro dot. So, I wanted to know, but I couldn't stomach the idea it might be true, because how could I-

**HP:** Ruth, I think I understand.

**RE:** Do you? Do you really? Because when you invited her into your office, my brain almost exploded, Harry! I had the benefit of a late night visit, one which provided ample evidence proving exactly how unhinged Angela had become after she retired. Yet here she was, on Juliet's arm no less, and everyone was fawning over her like she hadn't been asked to retire for some undisclosed manner of mental defect? But she was, wasn't she? Before I could think to say anything, you invite her into your office? I couldn't believe the number of ways in which she could kill you before any one of us could blink that rushed into my head. She believed you'd killed Peter! I mean, Jesus, Harry, she smuggled a bomb onto the Grid! Bat shit doesn't cover the half of it, and even though we didn't know that yet, what else could she have brought with her? A syringe? A knife? A box cutter for fuck's sake? All of it rang every alarm in my head and I just wanted her off the Grid, and, yes, I was, _I was_ _desperate_ to keep her away from you, and desperate to keep her quiet, and in that desperation I miscalculated, and Jo bore the brunt of what I have little doubt was intended for you. And me. Either. Both, who can bloody know for certain now?

**HP:** And you blame yourself?

**RE:** Of course! Have you not been listening? Who else could be to blame? If I had called you when I first discovered her, if I had called you after she left? If I had spoken to Adam earlier, if I had never admitted to the micro dot reader, if I had never looked at the damned thing in the first place? If I had asked Malcolm around to check my house when I knew, _knew_ something was off weeks ago? If I had done anything, _anything_ else but what I chose to do, it could have been prevented, all of it.

**HP:** I think that's a rather broad stroke, Ruth-

**RE:** Really? Do you? Well, guess what, that's not even the worst of it, Harry.

**HP:** Wait. Just hold on a minute. Does the worst of it pertain directly on the subject at hand, Ruth?

**RE:** Directly, no.

**HP:** Then I'd advise you to stop now. There's no immediate need to continue as far as the services, or this recorded debrief, is concerned. Given what you would offer would be speculative at best, yes?

**RE:** Speculative? Yes, though only in the most cursory understanding of the word.

**HP:** But enough to fall short of fact? Actual known, verifiable fact?

**RE:** All right, yes.

**HP:** Fine. I see no need to continue in that vein, then.

**RE:** Then, well you know the rest. You were there.

**HP:** So, to be clear, at no time did you ever solicit information regarding the Contingent Events Committee, nor promise or otherwise indicate any action on your part as a means of recompense for being provided said information, including but not limited to, the micro dot film given to you by Angela Wells?

**RE:** No, I did not.

**HP:** Furthermore, at no time did you have any prior knowledge of explosives placed in either Thames House or the Royal Bunker, nor any foreknowledge of Angela Wells' intentions towards the use or detonation of such, nor did you provide any active participation which could be viewed in any manner as collusive at any time in aiding, or furthering, Angela Wells' overall goals?

**RE:** No, I did not.

**HP:** You maintain you are innocent of wrong doing at this time as relates the events described.

**RE:** Yes, I do. Well, wait. I read the micro dot. So, I'm guilty, but not responsible.

**HP:** Exactly.

**RE:** I was joking, Harry.

**HP:** Let me assure you I'm not. You came home, you met with an intruder, you reacted under duress. You can't be held responsible for reacting while face to face with an uninvited intruder. At night. While you were alone. Without a weapon to defend yourself.

**RE:** A woman. The intruder was a woman. And known to me.

**HP:** A woman, yes. Though, clearly, not your average, everyday soccer mom. A woman who was familiar with weapons, their use and design. Made her living, one could say, by that knowledge. She didn't have a weapon, right?

**RE:** No, but...I had pepper spray-

**HP:** -Yet, you still felt threatened? At risk?

**RE: ** Well, yes...somewhat-

**HP:** -You resorted to the only weapon you had available. You did what she asked because you'd been left no other viable option.

**RE:** I made her tea, Harry.

**HP:** Of course you did. What better way to appease an intruder in what could easily be regarded as potentially fatal circumstances? So, you made tea.

**RE:** Are you being serious right now? _ I. Made. A. Pot. Of. Tea. I cleaned my toilet. I consumed a bottle of bourbon, and passed out. On my floor, Harry._

**HP:** No, you intuited that your history hinted that she might not physically harm you, but how were you to know for sure? She had physically attacked you in the past. I'm referring here to the TRING incident."

**RE:** Yes. I...Harry, our history, such as it is, was, _God_, had been-

**HP:** -Was complicated, yes. But her history, which you were well aware of, suggested she was prone to erratic behavior. That's fact, Ruth. Involuntary stay at TRING? Suicidal lover? Retirement under questionable circumstances? Its all a part of record, Ruth. Given that, I see little reason to pursue any criminal penalties against you, least of all treason.

**RE:** You don't have to do this-

**HP:** Actually, I do as Adam is otherwise occupied by injuries sustained subsequent to the events described. Injuries inflicted, as it happens, by the very intruder you were in fear of. Injuries, I would hasten to add, she had hoped and intended I would share. All _that_ supports my stated conclusion. I've little doubt he'd draw the same conclusion, in any case.

**RE:** But he's going to be fine, right? Adam, I mean. You've spoken-

**HP:** Overall, yes. He'll be out around six weeks recuperating. Doctor's orders being what they are. I suggested they tell him while he was still floating the mists of Avalon if they didn't want to have to strap him down. He'll be right as rain, Ruth. Of that I'm certain.

**RE:** Good. I'm glad of that. So, are we done, then? With this part?

**HP:** Unless there's something you wish to add? Or, ask, of course.

**RE:** So, if I may summarize, I'll not have charges brought against me because I was in fear of a woman who broke into my home, known to me as the longtime lover of my deceased step brother, who might or might not wish to harm me, and I assessed that the prudent course of action was to make her a pot of tea as she insisted I perform a treasonous act against the Realm in my front room, who later attempted to detonate a bomb in both Thames House and the Royal Bunker, and was, in fact, prevented from doing so, but nevertheless, shot my Section Chief, and attempted to assassinate my Section Head. Does that about cover it, or have I skipped over something?

**HP:** It was very powerful tea.

**RE:** How do we live this life?

**HP:** I should think carefully, Ruth. Carefully. And a bit of humor is always nice.

**RE:** It seems you've covered that.

**HP:** I'm pleased you think so. I've grown rather fond of your laugh. Doesn't happen nearly enough, in my opinion. I consider it a personal victory to watch as your nose crinkles up. Just so you know.

**RE:** I'll be self conscious about it now that you've mentioned it.

**HP:** No need. Its really quite beautiful. Rare and treasured as all infrequent things tend to be.

**RE:** You can be disarmingly charming when you want to be, Harry. Then, you already know that, don't you?

**HP:** Its been mentioned periodically, yes.

**RE:** Can I see him? Tonight? Adam? I'll just look through the window, just to be sure, is all.

**HP:** I can drive you, if you like. I need to touch base with his physician. No sense in going separately. Unless, of course, you'd prefer-

**RE:** I'd prefer to go together. The three of us, together. Its silly, or sentimental, I know, but I've come to regard us a team within a team. It wouldn't feel right if you weren't with me is the only way I can describe it. So, yes, together. Its what I want.

**HP:** Fine. I...well, let's go. We can...talk...on the way. I...let me turn this off-

**_Debrief concluded at approximately 8:15pm, 12 November 2005._**

**_Submission for transcription pending approval from H. Pearce._**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**A/N: Reviews are welcomed and appreciated. Next up, my version of the corridor.**

**A/N2: So the redacted parts are not blocked out, i.e. black squares. Basically, I intended for Angela's name to be blacked out as per Harry's instructions in keeping with the ****_victim in the _****_field_**** decision. Soooo, that happened.**


	16. Chap16:A Feathered Tail In Moonlight

******SMUT WARNING: FOLLOWING CHAPTER CONTAINS 'M' RATED THEMES******

**(^^^^don't blame me, its there in bold, red letters, or it was^^^^)**

**A/N: Just a reminder that this fiction is AU, and canon predictability is not observed, as relates characters actions, or certain events. There is smut, so if either circumstance is not in keeping with your sensibilities, I would only encourage you to turn back now. Otherwise, feel free to comment by way of review, or PM, your thoughts and opinions, as smut is reaching fairly deeply into the darkened, and largely ignored, recesses of my writing wheelhouse. I do hope you enjoy, and let me know in a manner comfortable to each, regardless. **

_"__It isn't that hard boy to like you or love you_

_I'd follow you down down down,_

_You're unbelievable_

_If you're going crazy just grab me and take me_

_I'd follow you down down down, anywhere anywhere_

_One for the money, two for the show_

_I love you honey, I'm ready, I'm ready to go_

_How did you get that way? I don't know_

_You're screwed up and brilliant,_

_Look like a million dollar man,_

_So why is my heart broke?"_

**Million Dollar Man, Lana Del Rey

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

In the rare moments he allowed himself to remember her, the contours of her face, the arch of brow and intricate combination of colors combining to create that liquid blue he'd no name for that were the kaleidoscope of her eyes, the scar just to the side of one. The pulse that beat in her neck, against his lips, her skin unimaginably soft and pliant, the individual lilt of her voice as she half breathed his name aloud, the day, _that_ _day_, would live in his memory as significant, taking on a life of its own, becoming part of the carefully guarded collection of memories which were set aside, special in occurrence, the after effects rumbling within him for years to come.

Most would assume it the result of an attempted coup against the Royals, or the near death of a favored Section Chief under his wing. Possibly the eventual and recorded "suicide" of Angela Wells, once a soaring beacon and trusted colleague, devolved into a vengeful, bitter, shell of her once bright and stellar existence; Or perhaps the knowledge that he had been targeted by forces unseen within their ranks, first to draw blood in their collective manipulative and duplicitous support of Angela, the collateral damage bearing the name Ruth a given, a weakness identified and catalogued.

The truth, however, was nothing to do with these things, occurrences happening within the twenty-four hours that defined one day from the next. The truth was simpler by comparison, and fundamentally personal, exempt from the fray that marked the moments of his professional life, and all the more potent to him for it. It would, despite all that had occurred, and all the damage accrued as a result, be remembered as the day wherein he experienced the single most erotically satisfying moment in his life.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

If he were honest with himself he would admit to being more than just slightly turned on while manipulating Ruth into confronting Angela. Her hesitation, discomfort, and vulnerability at the suggestion had been as much a turn on to him as if she had presented herself, stark naked, begging for him to take her. Like a virgin, she had appeared to him, venturing into the unknown, excited, scared, aroused, needing to be coaxed, needing to be instructed, flushed with experience and wonder, shame and self-doubt. It had been a heady cocktail, one which he hadn't encountered in quite some time, believed he never would again.

The shame of that self realization did nothing to temper his desire, fueling his underlying need to make her see what she could do, what she was capable of, her brilliant potential, the adrenaline pumping through his veins as it had hers. Her spoken, repeated refusals had only resolved him to push her harder. To mold her, to reach deep beyond known comforts, to trust him, only him, making her his agent exclusively, because isn't a spy really nothing more than a modern day Svengali, a hypnotist, manipulating others do their bidding?

That his decision of choice carried with it the sanction of Queen and Country did little to alter the fact that he did it because he could, because he wanted to, because he wanted her, and he selfishly wanted her to want him back, and was unwilling to abide further delay. Heartbreakingly, it was at that moment that he rather saw himself from outside himself, watched as he manipulated this delicately vulnerable creature with his eyes, his few words, his need, as Adam valiantly attempted to protect her, as she scurried to hide deep within herself, he reached in and pulled her back, exposed, shamed into doing what he wanted, knowing himself capable at the outset. Freud might conclude he raped her, if not physically, then metaphorically, mentally and emotionally, and he knows which scars last the longest. But Freud was a bed-whetter who can kindly go fuck himself. He didn't rape her, take from her what she would not offer despite their shared remit, shared duty, _his_ need. He just...Just..._Oh, to bloody hell with it._

In the hall, the anger and adrenaline was emanating from her in bursts of flame and fire as she tried to wound him with words, attempted to discount his praise, his congratulations, judging him, resenting him, and it became too much for him to dismiss, his fingers grasping at his sides, his head dizzy with his physical desire for her, and his need for her to admit he knew her, conceding both his dominance and her submission.

_"__You think I'm a limited man! You think I don't understand the emotional side? Self control, self denial, these are the things which keep us together in this job._

The outburst, because that is exactly what it had been in hindsight, the urge overcoming him, words bursting from him in frustration, and want, and an all powerful need for her to forgive him, understand him. He'd simply come undone, momentarily disregarding the very ideals he was breathing in lecture. He gave in, grabbing her as she moved to extricate herself, pushed her against the corridor wall, and it took every bit of restraint his unravelling mind could muster not to press his body against hers, ravage her mouth, thrust his hardening cock against her. That was the moment, one penultimate moment, when reaching blindly for her absolution in details like self control and self denial, he forced her to admit that she loved, deep inside herself, that she had accomplished her goal, talked Angela out of the room, literally diffusing a bomb, extracting from her both her shame and delight to acknowledge as the same.

_"__Aren't you proud you told the lie? Aren't you proud you talked Angela out of that room?"_

That was the moment when he knew there would never, in whatever time remained to him, be another for him. Knew, in his heart, she would both destroy him, and reform him from the rubble remaining. _She will make you bleed._ Her whispered, _God forgive me, _became both her instant of acquiescence and his own silent prayer spoken aloud, delicious to him as their eyes locked and he could see she delighted in his approval despite herself, begging absolution for unavoidable actions they both held clasped to their chests after the fact.

Paradoxically, time accelerated, roaring towards a screeching crescendo, the sudden halting advancement equally thundering to him, and he understood himself bereft then of both his lauded self control and self denial, his heart grateful despite him. The encounter evolved quickly then, from his manipulation, and her proffered lies, into its own breathing animal, each wanting to tear the other, their individual wants forming the primary focus propelling them both forward into territory previously imagined, and only very slightly tread upon. Pupils dilating, breathing coming in quick, rasping bursts, his cock aflame and throbbing, and she, her lips and chin trembling deliciously, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, nervous and torturously aroused, he could almost feel her desire to place her hands on him, lightheaded with his own yearning for her to act. He could have stood there for the rest of time, smiling into the apocalypse when it all mercifully came to an end.

That he had succeeded in achieving his own long since established personal goal, that attempt to push her beyond what she limited herself to, initiated deliberately with Fortescue, nurtured in turns by Adam and himself, was a forgone conclusion waiting in the distance to be met, and surpassed. And when she confessed to having the missing microdot reader, her face that combination of shame and relief, he'd found himself stepping towards her, leaning in, so close, for no other reason known to him but that he wanted to be close, closer still, her lips barely brushing the corner of his mouth as she turned her head, and he could smell her excitement, he could smell her arousal, as she sagged against the wall in exhaustion, chest heaving...God help him, that was the moment, of so many moments, all of them.

Alone, a mere hair's breath separating them, it was that precise moment when he knew, instinctively, for perhaps the first time a certainty, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, on the precipice, each waiting for the other to act, drowning. Had they been alone, had they been anywhere else, had this been any other time in any other universe, he would have taken her immediately, roughly, against the wall, and his ears would have rung a chorus as she continued to pant his name in time with his furious thrusts intended to claim her, mark her his forevermore. And for the first time, he relished his new found understanding she would have let him, allowed the idea liberty to drape itself around his previous imaginative fantasies, closing his eyes as he inhaled her scent, knowing she was wet, responding to the certainty despite where they were, exposed and yearning in a darkened hallway. _God, forgive me._

_"__You're a born spook, Ruth."_

He had torn himself from her side, the action within his head sounding loudly like a ripping, her eyes bearing that combination of yearning and hesitation he so frequently saw reflected in his own, rending him without sound direction for the first foundling steps away from her. Becoming surer as he established distance between them, he reentered the Grid, the scent of her still filing his nostrils, and the certainty he could not tear himself fully from her if he'd wanted to flushing his face with a soft, seemingly post-coital glow. It was a testament to his powers of imagination that though he had not touched her, availed himself of her moist arousal, he could nevertheless smell her on his fingertips, the urge to suck one after the other proving difficult to surmount, despite present company, or circumstance.

He could not count himself surprised, then, to find their world so recently righted, turned over again as the breadth of Angela's blind became known. Double blind, in truth, and if he'd a hat, he would have doffed it in salute to her skill in duping them all so summarily. It had been Ruth, of course, as it had to be, eyes bright with churning adrenaline, cheeks still flushed and dewy, whether from their recent interaction, or the rising new threat, he couldn't guess, but it was she who had identified the continuing threat, the unspeakable becoming reality while they had foolishly assumed all was well and righted in the world.

He had been struck by the irony that it had been Jo, a veritable foundling still, her foundation of experience when compared to her colleagues best described as infantile, who had vehemently counseled against the course chosen, _victim in the field_, and laughably tragic that had even one of them bothered to really listen to her, instead of dismiss her objections as suffering the predictable effects of some measure of PTSD, all could have been avoided, if not altogether prevented sooner than it was. A testament, too, to both his habitual distraction and willful disregard in favor of reaching Ruth, of taking her temperature, of forcing yet another opportunity not earned to visually fondle and touch her culminating in precious time lost and nearly unspeakable consequences.

As it happened, Adam was now on leave for six weeks recuperating from a near fatal gunshot wound, Angela Wells was dispatched by way of Black Flag Order, and Ruth had become, though he was loathe to lend the idea any credence, that weakness to him identified by factions within the Security Services as yet unidentified and undisclosed. He had, he knew, fucked up, magnificently so, and his secret fear that she should come to harm for her association with him began to take well defined shape and form within the darkened corners of his more masochistic imaginings.

As they drove the unusually quiet streets towards hospital, he made a mental note to review the transcripts of her debriefing, conducted by him in the absence of Adam, and imagined the number of redactions necessary prior to it being stamped official, and filed within the stacks lining the bowels of Registry. That is, if he bothered to file it at all. He hadn't planned on it then, and certainly not now, after the fact. It was one thing to be surveilled without knowledge of such; Entirely another to provide proof for speculations suggesting they were, he and Ruth, involved personally, or spotlight her as an appropriate and effective means with which to manipulate him.

The debrief, as it remained presently unadulterated, lent truth to the gossips, each statement bearing hidden meanings, some all but announcing their intentions, desires, wants, and while he was unwilling to halt the exercise at the time, he understood the dangers it would pose should it fall into the wrong, manipulative hands. He had enjoyed it, if he were honest. He had, in his secret imaginings, fantasized any number of circumstances in which to interrogate her, and he was at a loss to stop himself when presented the opportunity in Adam's absence. The simple fact was, he'd been rock hard at the outset, and his condition only worsened the more insolent she became, gradually thawing, and finally, mercifully, allowing him the confessions he'd only dreamt about, _I wanted it, as much as you._

Truth was, he'd never intended to allow criminal charges brought against her, prepared to call in any number of markers to ensure it, and the exercise of debriefing was singularly selfish on his part, that fortunate detail canopied by protocol which allowed him details he would otherwise be left to guess at. In all likelihood, the debrief would reside safely within the confines of his state of the art safe, or be destroyed entirely in an unfortunate incident involving fire. Its not the first time he'd be forced to such measures, and he doubted it the last. It remained, however, primary on the ever evolving list of items he was charged to protect at all costs, regardless however self serving that mandate could be legitimately catalogued.

At hospital, she had materialized, quiet as vapor, at his side where he sat, alone, awaiting updates on Adam's condition, a fresh cup of coffee in one hand, and cell phone in the other. Offering him the former, she quickly dialed, held the phone to her ear, and mouthed the word _'Jenny' _as if he'd any reason to understand her meaning, let alone associate the name with anything relevantly obvious at that moment. He listened as she spoke to Jenny, realizing after a few moments she had remembered the nanny, the need to inform her the current circumstances a responsibility that should have fallen to him obvious, assuring her that Adam was, despite a gunshot wound, expected to make a full recovery, softly pleading with her to reassure Wes that his father was fine, and would be home in a few short days. Adam was, as he listened, the apparent victim of a mugging gone perilously wrong, and Jenny was understandably concerned. He was silently proud as he watched Ruth effortlessly spin a suitable fabrication, watching the play of her facial features as she calmly soothed Jenny's worries, and not a little grateful that she had warmed to the task in his failure.

_"__Yes, absolutely, I'll make arrangements for Wes to visit. Yes, tomorrow earliest, I'm afraid. He's a bit too high for the boy at the moment. No, he's in fine humor, really. Yes, thank you. Well, I could stop by if you think...Are you sure? If you...Yes, of course. Uh, yes, very unfortunate. Wrong place, wrong time, that. Thank you, Jenny, and I'll make the arrangements."_

_"__Wrong place, wrong time?" _ He concentrated on the curve at the corner of her mouth, rather than the sarcasm decorating his words, his own mouth forming an impish grin of its own accord.

_"__Well, I couldn't very well tell her Adam was shot by a rouge agent intent on detonating the entire Royal family, now could I?"_

_"__By Heavens no, Ruth. A mugging...That...That works. Its good, actually."_

_"__Well, its not first date material, but it'll due, in any case."_

_"__First date?"_

_"__Hummm? Oh, no, I...Its just I often find myself thinking about topics in terms of dating. You know, first date, second date? I'm fairly certain detonating bombs falls somewhere in the teens. To answer your next question, that is."_

_"__That's...well, an interesting approach, Ruth. I wonder, do the rules change if you find yourself already abreast the circumstances?"_

_"__What?"_

_"__I'm...What? I'm continuing on your theme. This is your theory. So, if both parties know the circumstances, does the topic become more or less approachable?"_

_"__More. I think. No. Well, yes. Somewhat. Never mind."_

He watched her as she shuffled nervously from foot to foot, peering over his shoulder, down the hallway to his right, all the while rummaging within the depths of her seemingly bottomless bag, avoiding eye contact and he knew without being told she was working up to something, her fidgeting appearing more of an attempt to muster courage which he could only assume was stockpiled somewhere in her bag. His mouth twitched into a brief smirk as he heard her huffed sigh of exasperation, and the loud thunk the contents of her bag made as she slung it over her shoulder having decided to forego further delving.

_"__I wonder...Do you fancy a drink, Harry? With me? A drink. At a pub, or...not? There's an off license round corner. Did you know? Not that I'm suggesting you would, um, know the locations of off licenses, that is. I just really don't fancy going home just yet...or at all...or, drinking alone-"_

He rather enjoyed that moment she finally made direct eye contact, the jolt deep within him resonating as if the few minutes she had spent deliberately avoiding doing so was hours in the waiting. He couldn't imagine a time in which he would fail to be entranced by her shifting attitudes, a changeling, at once confident and nervously self conscious, effortlessly adopting one from the other, and he the intended observer attempting to keep up.

_"__Nor should you have to. Tell me, would this count as a first date, Ruth? I'm just trying to gage appropriate topics of discussion."_

_"__I...Couldn't we just, um, well-"_

_"__Ruth? As adorable as I may find your current inability to enunciate clearly, which, to be clear, I do, I must confess a likewise sudden dire need for alcohol, even better coupled with a peaceful view. So I'll save you continued verbal self flagellation and opt, first, for the off license, followed by a spot off the beaten path I think you might like, yes?" _

_"__Yes. Please. And you can talk about whatever you want. If you want. All topics are fair game. So, more approachable, to answer your question. Earlier-"_

_"__I'm older, Ruth, but remain, even in my deteriorating physical state, mercifully untouched by Alzheimer's, I'll thank you to know."_

_"__I...You're hardly old, Harry. As for your physical state, its hardly what I would describe as deteriorating."_

_"__I see. So do you spend a fair amount of time evaluating the condition of my body, or is this just a one off? Tell the truth."_

He had chosen the volley deliberately, assuming a teasing tone he hoped would engage her, rather than ignite her customary skittishness, smiling openly as his efforts were quickly rewarded.

He tried not to consider how very much he wanted to know the answer.

_"__You really are incorrigible, Harry." _

For a split second, before she'd predictably turned away, looking down, his heart danced internally for recognizing the mischievous glint in her eyes was not his imagination playing tricks, was not his desire coloring beyond the lines, was not some fantastical flight of fancy gone unchecked. His mind immediately recalled the corridor earlier, and his intuition relayed to his desperate internal yearnings that she had merged, once again, from skittish, nervous hummingbird into confident, predatory hawk in the blink of an eye. Placing his hand along her lower back, fingertips barely there, massaging the electric space between, softly, carefully, as though brushing the surface of some rare and delicate artifact whose existence was thought to be impossible, he leaned close to her ear, whispering, while expertly propelling her forward.

_"__And that's you avoiding answering my question, Ruth. Shall we?"_

She smelled of freesia, and he thought this unexpected escapade would either prove to be the best or worst decision he had ever allowed himself to make.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The off license was suitably bright, the lights harsh and curiously unwelcoming, and he was silently amused to note the number of security cameras present nearly rivaled the number surrounding, and placed within, Whitehall. The cooled air was dry and concentrated, reminiscent of airline travel, and within a very few short moments he found his nose uncomfortably dry, the back of his throat irritated and scratchy, the clerk behind the counter acknowledging them with a nod, and a not so subtle eyeing head to toe, dismissing them as a threat, returning his attention to the paper spread on the counter before him. _Five-seconds_, he thought, and then wondered if the clerk had any idea the damage that could be done in a mere five-seconds.

They had not held hands as they walked, not in the definitive sense, though they had brushed shoulders, arms, and the backs of their hands with enough frequency that she had finally wrapped her hand around the crook of his arm, leaning into him as she placed the other along the top of his forearm, squeezing intermittently, filling, by touch, the absence of conversation. He concentrated hard on not feeling the softness of her breast against him, as she leaned further into him, his focus almost entirely succumbing to her body's movements, adjustments, each of them responding to the other without hesitation. Once inside, the recycled air became frigid as she stepped away, the half of his body previously warmed by hers growing numb as it lost contact, his muscles stretching towards where she had been, now gone.

Having selected his bottle with little effort or consideration, he watched in quiet amusement as she deliberated her choice, the nail of her thumb stuck firmly between her teeth, eyes squinting as she reviewed the already chilled selections of white wines on display. She had opened and closed the refrigerated doors no less than three times, having decided inexplicably against whatever option had struck her, each door fogging repeatedly as a result of her apparent indecision.

He was, quite literally, moments away from relieving her of further indecisiveness, having immediately spied a favorite limited Spanish Rose, and experienced a moment of absolute delight when she casually reached in and selected the very vintage he'd had every intention of choosing for her had she continued to try his patience. He tried not to think about the fact that they had each chosen a bottle with the unspoken intention of consuming both separately, and rewarded his restraint by allowing himself to wonder, not without some curiosity, how soon her inhibitions would be affected as she crested, and then slid down into a languid state commonly referred to as 'skin full.'

Placing the selected bottles on the counter, establishing eye contact with the clerk briefly, squinting hard at his knowing smirk which suggested, _Ah, there's a successful pull_, he distracted himself by meditating the routine they had established in response to situations which were either fatal, or narrowly evaded, interrupted when she reached around him and placed an additional package on the counter, whispering, _For the 'on the go' picnickers _close enough to his ear that he unconsciously turned his head towards her, and felt her lips briefly brush his ear lobe.

The basket which boasted, amongst other things, two plastic glasses and a wine opener, was wrapped in cellophane, and it struck him humorous that it appeared almost comical, hermetically sealed against both infectious disease and theft, though not necessarily in that order, leaving him to wonder how long it would take to retrieve the items inside, visualizing the nightmare that releasing a CD from its casing had become in the modern age.

Throughout, his mind hummed with anticipation, his movements experiencing some measure of ten second delay, proving unintentionally fortunate for the clerk, _Is this happening, _forming the reverberating question his mind insisted on asking despite all evidence confirming it was happening, his reality, mercifully, alining itself briefly with his personal desire. To his equal delight and frustration, she continued to add items, ice, a mini cooler, a bottle of soda water, _For when my wine in gone_, and a single package of bubble gum, whose addition had him turning to look at her incredulously, _So I don't smoke,_ her softly uttered reply. He did a fair imitation of Scarlet, head tilted to the side as if the concept were entirely unknown to him, and he were left waiting further demonstration, but she offered only a soft smile, and no further comment. Or additional items, thankfully.

If he closed one eye, he could see how this fit, the subtle alteration in pattern, diverging from the previously habitual specter of death and unexpected fatalities, and evolving into a planned Black Flag sanctioned death bringing them together, at her suggestion, and he could easily sell himself on the idea it all represented progress of a sort. Progress, viewed through one eye, squinting, and entirely disregarding of Adam's current condition, Angela's subsequent death by 'suicide,' and as yet unidentified factions holding him firmly in their sightline. _Right._

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"__Harry? Where are we going?" _

Her voice carried with it a feeling like velvet, plush and rich, deep, and he found himself wanting to roll himself up in it, feel the texture on his skin, stretch and luxuriate within it. They had been driving further from the city, making small talk, the silences in between spoken word expanding longer in length, the weight of the past forty-eight hours beginning to take its toll on her.

_"__We're almost there. Its by the water, an old, abandoned silo. I come out here sometimes to, um, just be alone. Its secluded, and...If I'm honest, Ruth, I thought you might prefer...The surveillance hasn't been removed, and I'm not altogether confident mine is any, um, safer...So, I just thought somewhere on the outskirts would be the best alternative. But, we can go back if-"_

_"__No. Its very...You're very...I'm sure it will be fine, Harry. I trust you." _

She had been turned towards the passenger window, watching the landscape pass, and he risked a quick glance at her admission owing to the fact that if he were another kind of man, a better kind of man, he would turn the car around and head back towards the city, a place full of people whose presence formed the kind of impediment in population to men who shouldn't be trusted that was fantastically absent in the spot he had in mind. Because, after the past day's events he knew, in his heart, he couldn't be trusted with her anymore. Visions of the corridor materialized again and he was more resoundingly certain than any time previous he required the supervision of others to filter his urges, to maintain that boundary, however dissolving presently, which would ensure she remain unsullied by him.

He wouldn't turn around, however, an ice cube stood a better chance. He couldn't, not for any altruistic reasoning, but for the selfish fact that he wanted her alone, he wanted her without any means of viable escape. He wanted, more than anything he could ever remember wanting, to place her in that specific circumstance wherein she could do nothing but talk to him without running away, or escaping, forced by solitude to look at him, and see him. Because he was very good at manipulating his ends, just as she had said. _You're exceptionally gifted at that._

_"__Is that it?" _

Pointing towards the single fixture on the horizon, he gazed at her as she internally gaged distance, tilting her head slightly as her eyes took in his intended destination.

_"__That's it, yes. Completely abandoned. There's only a few of us left that know how to gain access inside. We could, if you wanted-"_

_"__No. I mean, its not that I _wouldn't._ Its lovely out, is all. I feel as though we've been cooped up for an age. I just want to breathe, feel the breeze against my face...Can we just sit out? Have you a blanket, or something?"_

_"__A blanket. A suitcase. Let's see, a hack knife, collapsable fishing pole, first-aid kit. Two bottles of wine. Uncontaminated, hermetically sealed wine key. All that's missing is a tent." _

He could literally feel his devolution, the stripping of his extensive experience, his skill, his over ripe ability to reduce women in pliable mounds of yearning and need, each word spoken becoming that hallmark of nervous verbal ejaculate characteristic of a fumbling novice. Rather than feeling insubstantial, as he would have expected, he felt a keen euphoria, as though this was exactly as was intended, that those before her were merely prelude, and this, now, was what it felt like to hand yourself over to another, your years previous so much research for the main event, the appetizer to what he hoped would be the main course he would consume for the rest of his breathing days, and then some.

_"__We've hardly a need for a tent, Harry. I love laying under the stars. Tents just get in the way. If I'd known, I would have grabbed the ingredients for S'mores."_

In the darkness of the idle car, she met his eye, the corner of her mouth curling, caught in shadow, her chin dipping towards her chest as she looked down and away, and his mind fixated on the word_ laying _so resoundingly he was more than best pleased the interior of the car was shrouded in darkness. At the mention of S'mores, his vision literally exploded with images of Ruth lapping at sweet, melting combinations of marshmallow and chocolate, her tongue running the length of cookie, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the shudder he'd experienced deep in his chest proved a mild stroke as the images became more detailed the longer he granted them license to dance. Unaware of the tangent his thoughts had taken, she released her door, and the car was suddenly illuminated, allowing him a moment to see her smile clearly. He almost felt his pupils adjust to the sudden illumination, funneling the surrounding environment down until only she remained. He bit his tongue before giving voice to his intuition that she was, only slightly surprisingly, a bit of a tease. _I don't know the half of her._

_"__I should warn you now, Ruth. The days of me sitting cross-legged on a rug are long gone."_

_"__So, I'm to interpret that as you'll not join me out here?"_

_"__I didn't say that. Just, over that ridge, we can rest our backs, or my back, and still see the stars. Okay?"_

_"__Lead the way. I'm game."_

_"__Are you? I'll make a note of it."_

Just like that, his devolution became complete as he was reduced to a fumbling adolescent, all thumbs and urges, hard on that would cut glass, wanting to touch everything all at once, completely undone by the power women would forever hold over men, without the slightest understanding how, or why.

_"__I'm beginning to get the distinct impression you think me rather easy, Harry."_

_"__Well, you did ask me if I fancied a drink-"_

_"__And you who decided to drive us out to...to...Bloody hell, I don't know where, to consume it! So, if I'm easy, then you're doubly so."_

_"__I'm a very easy, Ruth. Ask anybody."_

_"__No need. I've read your file. You appear easy enough for half the population if S24's are anything to go by."_

_"__You've...Did you just tell me you've read my file?" _

They had nearly reached the ridge, and he could smell the water, reminding him how much he loved the water, craved it, and he was so distracted by the habitual desire to set sail, preferably with Ruth at his side, that he thought to have misheard her.

Almost.

_"__Yes, I did. And, yes, I have."_

_"__My confidential, highly classified personnel file?"_

_"__That's the one. Just put the ice in the cooler, Harry. But not the gum. What? It makes it too hard to chew?"_

She had been shaking out the blanket, intending to release whatever hazards she thought the result of residing idle in his boot, and he had stopped unwrapping the various items they'd purchased, staring blank faced as she admitted to yet another breach of protocol within the last forty-eight hours, bringing her total, now, to approximately three.

That he knew of.

_"__Ruth? Stop for a second. Why...What...No, how did you get my file?"_

_"__After all this time, Harry, you're asking that with a straight face? Really?"_

Her face, if he had to describe it, bore an almost bored facade, with eyebrows raised as if meant to communicate, _Oh, you silly, misguided man_.

_"__Do you even...Can you conceive the magnitude of infraction you've just admitted to?"_

_"__I'm guessing, by the look on your face, its shockingly spectacular, yes." _

Again, she gave every indication of not simply boredom, but an offensive amount of disinterest, as if tasting something, and deciding it need more spice. _Unbelievable, this woman._

_"__Well, you think? I mean, what would you expect me to do with that, if you were in my position?" _

He concentrated deliberately on not imagining exactly the helpless picture he was certain he made as he stood there, incredulous, arms slicing the air at his sides for emphasis, inquiring as to what _she_ thought the best course of action would be.

_"__Ideally? Nothing. At least not right this second. Rather a mood killer if I'm honest." _

_That_ was a smirk. She's bloody smirking. At him. Right now. And as quickly as his ire stoked red, his soul grasped at the words _mood killer_, and he was left floundering for words appropriate to reprimand, yet not deleterious to _mood_. So, of course, he lashed out, as was his way when backed into a corner at cross purposes.

And meditating the curve of her mouth.

And the resulting desire to lick it.

_"__I...God damn, Ruth, you-"_

_"__No! God damn you, Harry! You just spent the better portion of twenty-four hours trolling through my bloody file! Which, of course, you've a right to do, as my boss, but its an invasion of my personal life, because that's the majority of the content when you get right down to it, and you bloody well know it! So, yes, I looked at your file, read all the sordid little details. Quite a collection of females, I'll give you that." _

One moment smirking, half a second next blazing with so much fury he'd thought her so hot to the touch that if he risked trying to touch her, his fingerprints would be irretrievably altered. At least now, mercifully, he had her on the back foot, off balance, and he struck back, calmly, coating his voice in layers of honey and the melted chocolate he now desperately wished they had thought to include.

_"__When." _

Christ, I want you.

_"__When, what?"_

_"__When did you look?"_

He had to admit, though it would be ill advised to state directly, she was rather adorable when riled. And she was clearly riled now, eyes like ice, face like a thundercloud because she knew he had caught her out, and left loathe to admit it. All that passion roiling within her, a better aphrodisiac he couldn't divine.

Not that he was at all inclined to search.

_"__Before."_

_"__I'm sorry? Before, was it? Before what, exactly?"_

_"__Before I left GCHQ."_

_"__Ah, so that would be before today? In fact, that would be before I, what was it, trolled through your file?"_

_"__Yes."_

_"__So who invaded who first, Ruth? I suddenly feel very soiled. Just filthy." _

It was all too rich for him, really. Like taking a bite out of a decadent dessert after having fasted for months, the sugar acting like an injection of adrenaline, and you can't help yourself but inhale the remaining and request another.

_"__Shut up."_

_"__Oh, I do. I just feel so violated it should be considered a complete breach of protocol punishable by severe action."_

Try as he might, which in truth he had to admit wasn't his best effort, he could not curb his propensity to milk her down to the dregs of her diminishing anger, enjoying the view as she maneuvered, deciding alternate tacts, discarding them, the emotions playing clearly on her face.

_"__I don't want to argue with you, Harry." _

Ah, so its to be the velvety, cajoling, liquor-laced soft voice used to reestablish mood. It struck him as not so coincidental that it was the same tone she used to calm him when he was operating under the canopy of furious, frustrated, insolent, or any combination of the three. But it had always been her, his consciousness listing a bit as he realized what everyone had already surmised on the Grid. Had he really been that transparent?

He deliberated whether it wise to push further, the risk inherent both appealing and seductive to him, but instead concluded jocular amusement as his best option. The mood, as far as he was concerned, had only heightened during the exchange. Not for a moment had there been the slightest risk that it would diminish, or extinguish altogether, and he saw, in her bright eyes, she interpreted it in like manner.

_"__Oh no. No way. Not that easy, Ruth. You'd argue until the cows came home if you didn't already know you were first at fault. Admit it. Go on, I'm waiting. Just me and the stars, and the booze we've yet to open."_

_"__I think this would all go so much soother if you would hand me that wine key." _

He had to admire her tenacity. And, just as easily, her cleavage as she leaned down to clasp one of the bottles by it's neck, and he almost lost track of his thoughts as they were replaced by a variety more distinctly lurid in nature.

_"__While we're on the topic of personnel files of a psychiatric theme, perhaps there's a bit more you'd like to divulge concerning yours? Perhaps something along the lines of explaining the apparent end run you performed on yours sometime in the not so recent past?"_

_"__Please, hand me the wine key."_

Tenacious, this one. I absolutely adore you, Ruth. The thought, unbidden, reached the tip of his tongue before he'd managed to curb the urge to give it voice. The need to do so, nevertheless, became a throbbing ache within him.

_"__You know, in some countries a wine key is considered a lethal weapon. Can you be trusted? Have you had the proper training?" _

He had offered it to her, palm out, retracting it quickly, ever the adolescent, before she could grasp it, and his mind conjured another moment wherein they had exchanged an item, their fingers refusing to release the others, palpating, electric. Image freshly breathing in his mind, he released the wine key to her, and again their fingers deftly probed each individual palm, extended this time, their eyes locked together, a potently heady adjustment to the image living in his head.

_"__I can assure you the only thing I'm planning to murder in the immediate future is the cork in my bloody wine, Harry. You? I've decided it best to kill you slowly."_

_"__Good to know." _

He saw the words uttered long ago_, She will make you bleed, _floating like ticker-tape across his thoughts, his mind's eye reading them as they scrolled, his single thought,_ Yes, please,_ forming a heartbeat later.

_"__Yes, death by paper cuts. It will be painful, but you can reconcile yourself for having earned it."_

_"__I remain at a complete loss how I'm the one at fault here, Ruth."_

_"__You're not. But you are terribly amusing when all wound up." _

Deftly removing the corks of both bottles, she leaned across him to gather the cups, and he was mesmerized by the play of her back muscles as they worked beneath her shirt, imagining them under his hands, shuttering with the force of orgasm.

_"__Sooo, you're admitting fault? And that you find me amusing? Genial? Dare I say, forgivable?"_

_"__Yes. Yes. Um, no, not genial. Against my better judgement, yes."_

_"__Good. That's good, then. Not genial?"_

_"__No. More, um engaging, I would say."_

_"__But forgiven."_

_"__Yes."_

_"__Good."_

_"__And me, then?"_

_"__Oh, I find you very genial."_

_"__Harry-"_

_"__And forgiven. Entirely, Ruth. Always."_

_"__Well, then I can look forward to resuming a normal sleep pattern."_

_"__Alone?"_

_"__What?"_

_"__Oh, that just...Wow, I shouldn't have-"_

He had been so entranced watching her as she drank from her glass, the liquid rolling down her throat, and the muscles moving in time to accommodate, imagining the feel of movement against his tongue, that he'd quite magnificently failed to realize he'd given unintended voice to his normally silent musings.

_"__But you want to know just the same."_

_"__Wha-"_

_"__If I am currently sleeping alone?"_

_"__I don't-"_

Bloody hell, yes, absolutely. It wasn't simply that he wanted to know, it was that he needed to know so that he could assuage those many insecurities railing at him that she couldn't possibly remain alone, wasn't alone presently, could pull just as easily as he could, and frequently had. The resulting vision of her in the throws with some shifting figure wearing Gary's face, or Peter's, or Fortescue's hulking mass nearly brought to the surface the wine he had moments before consumed.

_"__Yes. You do. You want to know."_

The banter between them had been flowing at such a comfortable pace he'd quite lost track of himself finding himself dumbfounded by her assertion, desperate to reclaim the upper hand she had so deftly reasserted, and yearning to admit the accuracy of her declaration at once. Busing himself with his own bottle, he poured himself another healthy measure, distracting himself further by removing his tie and cufflinks, depositing them in his suit pocket, which he then quickly discarded, while his subconscious mind began to tick off the seconds of silence that sat heavily between them. He could feel her eyes watching him while he performed his ablutions, and when he turned to face her, unbuttoning his shirt collar, he was not just a little encouraged when her eyes flicked first to his throat, then his mouth, and finally, his eyes, her head tilting just to the left as she did so. _In for a penny..._

_"__Well?"_

_"__Well, what?"_

_"__Do you sleep alone, Ruth?"_

_"__Yes. For now."_

_"__That's, ah, a deliberate choice, then?"_

_"__What other kind of choice could it be, Harry?"_

_"__That's a good point."_

_"__It is, isn't it."_

There was that mischievous grin again. She was playing with him, forcing him to ask what he wanted to know rather than offering answers voluntarily. A bit of cat and mouse, that. She liked games, and he liked games, and the primal thrum emanating from his cock was bursting with recognition and desire, and was, apparently, also a big fan.

_"__Is that how you want it? I mean, choice aside, is that your preferred sleeping arrangement?"_

_"__Its how it is right now. Preference doesn't really factor into it much, if I'm honest. The profession doesn't really...I quite like being honest if I'm to sleep with someone. I mean, if they're to be inside me, I'd rather they know my name. My real name. I'm rubbish at the whole maintaining a legend whilst in the midst of climax."_

_"__That can be a bit of an impediment."_

_"__Well, for me, anyway."_

_"__By which you mean to suggest its not for everyone else? Or, just me, specifically?"_

_"__At the risk of reigniting a hard won truce Harry, I've read your file, and I can only imagine the frequency for practice evident put you in good stead to overcome whatever impediments you met with."_

_"__Well, actually, Ruth, all those forms you seems inordinately fixated on attest to the fact that I also prefer real names, as much as can be afforded, before I enter a woman frequently enough as to be construed as, um, well, a partner. For a time, at least."_

_"__Well, that's all right then."_

_"__I don't believe you think so, no."_

_"__It's...fine. For men. Never mind the S24's. Take the basic honey trap. No doubt each successful honey trap was met with backs slaps and congratulations aplenty. For women, its not the same. It hardens us somewhere inside. Women talk, Harry, and for the most part, what it does to us, inside, it can't be undone after a while. I don't expect you to understand, but there's a part that goes missing somewhere, and when they talk, all I can hear is that part screaming to be heard. It becomes rather mind numbing, that."_

_"__Its what we do, Ruth. Its the job-"_

_"__Yes, I know that, but I'm trying to answer your question, I'm trying...I'm trying to explain why I need...I need my personal life to remain mine. You talked about self control and denial...No, let me finish...You were right. Well, half right, in my case. You exercise both professionally, and you have your reasons. I respect that. Its just I exercise them personally. So, if I sleep with someone, its with the intent of knowing them as much as a person can know another. Its why I changed the contents of my file. I know it was a breach, and I know its serious, but I did it anyway, even though I know that I gave up parts of myself to be in this profession, as much as I love it. Really, I do, but the services can't own all of me. Some parts are just for me, and for whomever I decide to share myself with, those parts that form the whole of me. So, I'm not sleeping with anyone now because the truth of it, Harry, is that there have been only a few who've managed to overreach that benchmark of trust, and the kind of life I lead, well, we lead really, rather requires it."_

_"__You've...You've slept with someone since you joined the Grid?"_

_"__Yes, Harry."_

_"__I don't remember ever receiving an-"_

_"__-S24. I know. How do you think I figured out the whole can't remember one's legend while climaxing thing?"_

_"__Are there any other standard protocols I can expect you to thumb your nose at? Quite a little renegade, there, Ruth."_

Bringing the overall breach of protocol count for one Miss Ruth Elizabeth Evershed to four. He couldn't know where to begin, if he were in the least bit honest about reprimanding her, which, at the moment, he found himself unsurprisingly not so inclined.

_"__If I'm not altogether misinterpreting, you sounded a bit amused there, Harry."_

_"__Well, you said climax. Twice."_

_"__You're easily amused."_

_"__I'll not apologize for my fondness of the little things."_

_"__So, in your estimation, the female climax is a little thing? I fear you haven't been with the right women."_

_"__No, I said the word from your mouth amused me. The actual event is something almost indescribable in words. If your looking for my honest opinion, Ruth, I regard bringing a woman to climax vital as relates the entire process of making love. Or fucking, really. No fun with just one, and all that."_

_"__Did you just make that up?"_

_"__No, I've done extensive research, as you can attest. To the research. We've established that much, I think."_

_"__We have indeed, Harry."_

They sat, side by side, in companionable silence, each allowing the words exchanged to take shape and meaning. For his part, he was finding it difficult to reconcile she had slept with someone since joining the grid. He'd no right, he knew, to the festering jealousy which bloomed across his chest the moment the admission left her lips, yet he was quite helpless to curb its growing intensity. It felt, ludicrously, like a betrayal, not least because he had abstained engaging the numerous women holding themselves on offer for him to enjoy shortly after she had joined the Grid. It hadn't been difficult. Strangely, not difficult to abstain at all, very nearly unconscious in action, yet curiously contrary to his personal hardwiring, his dedication to primal release of a sexual nature treated as sport, diminished while he was otherwise occupied. She had experienced lovers, that had been made clear. It was, curiously, something about their being dated previous, resting within the mists floating that plane marked past, which made them easier to ignore, disregard, and he understood, perhaps for the first time, why the number of S24s in his file would be disheartening to a person like Ruth.

He felt, presently, as his eyes watched the moonlight flicker on the surface of the quiet waters before them, something he could only identify as similar to what she must have felt as she perused his file. Worse still, he had lied just then. Well, not entirely, but in all honesty he couldn't remember all the names of those women he'd brought to orgasm littering his file. He could, with deliberate concentration, name a few, but all were representative of nothing more than a mountain climbed, a flag sunk, and a name forgotten in search of the next. He'd little doubt that those precious few who were granted the chance to know her, her name and all the correlating aspects she had revealed as necessary and incumbent, had not forgotten it. Heartbreakingly, the only name he ever wished to utter, or scream, or moan, or whisper was hers, and he knew, in that moment, it would never be forgotten.

_"__Earlier, in the car, you said you trusted me."_

_"__Yes. I did."_

_"__You did, and now you don't? Or, you did, you did?"_

_"__I think we might be pissed."_

She had leaned her head back, and smiled as the laugh emitting had become deeper, throaty and rich with the expanse of her neck. She stayed that way, still as she watched the sky, her laugh evolving into a quiet smile, her eyes half-lidded with wine.

_"__It made perfect sense to me."_

_"__Yep, we're pissed. Yes, I trust you."_

_"__Good. Now, on the measuring scale of trust, are we talking being alone in the middle of nowhere with no decent means of escape available, or the climax kind?"_

_"__Aren't they the same?"_

_"Not i__f he knows what he's doing."_

_"__Fair point. And do y...I've a better idea. Now that we're both inebriated, perhaps a game of 'Tell Me' is in order?"_

_"__I'm getting the impression you're a big fan of games, Ruth."_

_"__You'll like this. Well, like might be too strong a word. I think you'll come to find it beneficial, even if a bit uncomfortable given your personal self control and denial code. Which is why I believe it very fortunate we are both well into our cups. And completely alone."_

_"__Is this your circuitous route to seducing me because short of that I'll expect some manner of trophy when I win this game?"_

_"__Would you like that?"_

_"__Very much."_

_"__Which?"_

_"__Ah, yes. Apparently, I've given the impression that either would suffice in error."_

_"__So, that is to say you would prefer one to the other? If I'm understanding you?"_

_"__You're a bit of a cock tease, Ruth."_

_"__Its been known to happen."_

_"__Ruth? Where's this going?"_

_"__Yes, obviously the rules of the game. You're quite right. Pretty simple really. Every question has to begin with the words 'tell me,' and the information can cover any subject, but must be answered truthfully."_

_"__I think you, no, I know you know that's not what I-"_

_"__Okay, so I'll start by default, since you seem to be having trouble with the basic premise. You're old, so I'll be gentle"_

_"__I'm not daft for bloody sake-"_

_"__Tell me...about the first girl you kissed."_

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**A/N: This chapter expanded into 16, 000+ territory rather quickly, so I've bisected it here to allow a breather. Let me know when y'all would like me to provide the rest. _This_ half was, admittedly, smut-lite. Holla at me...**


	17. Chap17:The Nesting

******SMUT WARNING: FOLLOWING CHAPTER CONTAINS 'M' RATED THEMES******

**(^^^^don't blame me, its there in bold, red letters, or it was^^^^)**

**A/N: Just a reminder that this fiction is AU, and canon predictability is not observed, as relates characters actions, or certain events. There is smut, so if either circumstance is not in keeping with your sensibilities, I would only encourage you to turn back now. Otherwise, feel free to comment by way of review, or PM, your thoughts and opinions, as smut is reaching fairly deeply into the darkened, and largely ignored, recesses of my writing wheelhouse. I do hope you enjoy, and let me know in a manner comfortable to each, regardless. I must insist, weather patterns, and their movements, also reside in a darkened corner of my wheelhouse, next to any understanding of why I should need a picture of what you've eaten 3000 miles away, the entire Bush family, anyone's obsession with Caitin Jenner, and that process by which atoms are split. Enjoy the freedom of disbelief's suspension.**

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_"I used the state of the art_  
_Tech-nology_  
_Supposed to make for better living_  
_Are we better human beings?_  
_We've got out wires all crossed  
Our tubes are all tied  
And I'm straining to remember  
Just what it means to be alive_  
_A life worth living_  
_Now you can feel it in your chest_  
_Buildin like little bullets_  
_Just building up the nest_  
_And you build it up strong_  
_And you fill it up with love_  
_And you pray for good rain_  
_All from the lord above"_

-State of the Art, Jim James

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"Tell me….about the first girl you kissed"_

_"The...I think we already...Didn't I...After Clive, I thought I-"_

_"No, not that I recall. Nope, still a mystery waiting to be revealed, it seems."_

_"Ah. I could have sworn...Well, never mind. First girl, huh? Well, her name was Rebecca. I think I did mention Vivian Leigh, Yes?"_

Nodding affirmatively, she held him in her gaze, and he allowed the memory to take flight, his mouth forming the words as she sat patiently waiting.

_"She, that is, Rebecca, to me, bore a striking resemblance, and my heart was immediately lost. Well, as much as can happen with boys barely eleven, which is to say she figured prominently within my, ah, burgeoning adolescent period of puberty. Why are you laughing?"_

_"My burgeoning adolescent period of puberty? Really, Harry, just relax, won't you? Its just us. You've no need to measure every word for my sake."_

_"Fine. I experienced a hard on just thinking about her, and found myself regularly jacking myself off to visions of her. Better?"_

_"Well, more accurate, certainly. I do appreciate the effort towards unvarnished truth, if it helps."_

_"I'll make another note of it. So, first kiss is it? Well, what I remember of it...Funny, you'd think that something so, I don't know, monumental would be easier to recall. I feel a bit on the back foot, now that I'm, well...Okay, I remember there was a dance, and I wanted to ask her. I'd rehearsed in the bathroom mirror, and was mortified when Ben, my younger brother, have I ever mentioned him? No? Humm. Another question for later, maybe?"_

_"Well, he caught me, Ben, and was predictably merciless teasing me for about a week. The end result being, I couldn't muster the courage. Hardly the ladies man sat before you presently, I should say. My best friend ended up escorting her, much to my chagrin, and considerable frustration, compounded by having to watch them slow dance to every single bloody song. Well, he, Daniel was his name, had stepped away for some reason, the loo, who knows, but I watched her leave out the side entrance, and I just...I just found myself following her. She was alone, outside, and I knew there would never be another opportunity. I had convinced myself, in the time it took me to cross the room and appear by her side, that everything had been designed that way. It was, of course, ludicrous to think, but I was young, she was my adolescent fantasy, she was alone, and I just, God this is terribly uncomfortable, this game-"_

_"You're doing fine, Harry. I rather like hearing about you when you were still soft and pliable. You've always been a romantic. Its a wonderfully attractive quality in a man, just so you know. Tell me what it felt like, Harry. The kiss, what...How...Tell me what you felt."_

_"Soft and pliable? That's...Yes, I guess I was. Then. It felt, how to describe it? It felt like my entire body exploded. That's the most accurate description I can provide, but it really only scratches the surface. Her lips were soft and tasted of flavored lip gloss...something cherry, and I could count the freckles that lay across the bridge of her nose, and I could smell her hair, feel her against me as I shifted closer. Her hair was so soft, and my hands wound their way into it, holding her head, imitating everything I had learned from the cinema. A woman's hair, Ruth, I learned quickly my innate affinity that night, but I made a hash of it, to be honest. Pressed my luck, tried to explore her mouth with my tongue, too soon, rushing, you know, no finesse, and I lost her." _

_"She ended up marrying Daniel years later, as it happens. I was Best Man at their wedding. She tried to fix me up with her Maid of Honor, if I'm remembering correctly. I can't remember her name, but I do remember she mentioned something about Rebecca's fondness for a kiss at a dance years earlier. So, I guess I managed something along the lines of memorable performance."_

_"Did you sleep with her? No, the Maid of Honor."_

_"Well, I had gotten a bit better in my approach by that time, and she was keen to the idea. So, yes, I did. And that makes, what, about four answers to questions you owe me, Ruth?"_

_"Three. I'll admit to three."_

_"Agreed. Tell me...I'll start with an easy one. Tell me about your first kiss. And the boy, of course. Tell me about the boy. That leaves me one question remaining."_

_"Ummm, okay. Well, his name was Jean Paul, and he was two years older than me. I must have been eleven, maybe twelve? It was while in Paris at boarding school, after my father had died. Mother felt the change of environment would be beneficial, help me navigate my grief. I never understood the reasoning, regardless the number of times she explained her thinking. Really, I think I knew that having a precocious child underfoot would be an impediment to her own process of mourning. That, and it would have made subsequent dating difficult, so, maybe a bit about my emotional state, but more likely about removing the breathing reminder of what she had lost. It was always that way, like she had lost something, and I had just misplaced it, you know? The level of pain could never be equal. Parents just tell themselves what they need to in the end, so I didn't rebel, or act out. Well, initially I did, but it sort of diffused itself quickly."_

_"I felt like a part of me was dead. Literally, I could visualize a part of me, inside, browning and curling in on itself, a part of me, but deteriorating just the same. Harry, I was so desperately lonely, I can't describe it in words. I was numb is the best I can come up with. All over. Just insulated beyond reach. My father had been my best friend. My very best friend and he'd left me alone. For the first few months I really just went through the motions, living, but not breathing, not in time with anything or anyone. I spent most of my time in the library. Hours and hours. They would find me curled up somewhere and ask me to leave as they were closing. After while I became such a fixture that they allowed me to stay until everyone left together. The silence during those times, I mean Libraries are customarily silent, but after closing, it became a tomb, one vaulted sarcophagus with me curled up in the middle. It felt right to me, the tomblike quality. I felt his presence with me in those moments, and I eventually grew accustomed enough to stop sobbing as they slowly extinguished the lights, and locked the doors. The people, they were very kind to me. I'll always remember that."_

His eyes took her in, as she spoke, staring across the surface of the water, her fingers absently playing with her necklace. Years later he would pinpoint this as the moment he'd determined to take her on the water with him, if only to see the moonlight dance in her eyes, the sailboat gently rocking, the comforting pinging of the sail's pulley the only sound for miles, and they the only two people in the world.

_"Anyway, Libraries had always been treated with reverence, like cathedrals, by my father, and his love for them passed easily to me. I felt closest to him when I could smell the pages, escape into the words. I would sit in between the stacks of the oldest volumes. They had the most fragrantly aged scent, which to this day, I still find strangely calming. I would imagine him sat there with me, reading, pausing to share something with me, a phrase or illustration. I was quite lost, Harry. I was utterly lost and dying a little more every day."_

_"I've often thought my father sent Jean Paul to me. I know that sounds so...I don't know. We tell ourselves things, don't we? Just a little something sweet to even the bitter, as my grandmother would say. Well, I was lain out in between two stacks, and I had made a pile to rest my head against. It was Shakespeare, I think. They had a volume that had these wonderfully intricate wood carved illustrations, and just the poetry, the illustrations, the combination was like an aphrodisiac. I loved that book. I think I fell in love with it, to some extent. Or, maybe, just the way it made me feel...that it...made me feel. I had fabricated a number of schemes to liberate that book, but I couldn't do it, in the end. Concluded it cruel somehow, denying it to another, I guess. I've often wondered if its still there, waiting for me to return. I sometimes feel guilty about that, leaving it, though I'd feel worse were I to have stolen it. Comme ci, comme ca."_

_"He, Jean Paul, literally tripped over me. No, really, Harry. He really tripped over me, catching his foot on my side, and sprawling full on top of me. It was funny because we both reacted the same way, immediately checking to see if the books were damaged. Well, I know, but they were really old and fragile. He kept scooting around on me while trying not to hurt me, or the book he refused to let go of, and I guess my grandmother would have called it a 'meet cute,' like the cinema? And it was. We managed to sort ourselves, and, oh, I don't know, something about him holding an ancient copy of Tess of the d'Urbervilles and readjusting his glasses properly, I just...I felt like I hadn't breathed, really taken a breath, before then in the whole of my life."_

_"Big fan of Hardy were you?"_

_"Is that your third question?"_

_"No. Just curious."_

_"The game is rather based on curiosity, Harry."_

_"It's not my third question. I'm saving it, if you must know."_

_"I see. Well,...that particular book was a favorite of my father's. And you have to admit that particular piece is vaguely sexy to an extent. So, you can see where I would be easily inclined-"_

_"To see your father in your 'meet cute?' Yes, I can. You appear a bit of a romantic yourself, Ruth. Those long passages filled with longing are vaguely sexy, but you knew it wouldn't end well. That bit when Angel carried her across the water? Scorching bit of literary lust there, I'll admit that."_

_"Maybe, yes. A bit, anyway. Who wouldn't want to be carried across water? Oh, Angel, he was just...well, that's another answer for a future question, maybe? So that's how we met. His parents had divorced and in their haste to pull themselves back together, he rather fell by the wayside. Old story, same theme. So we were rather alined already by solitude, a nomadic existence within so many flush with activity and companionship. We told each other everything but I think we were too young at the time to really understand the preciousness of what we had created. I mean to say, we spent every spare moment together, and it was never awkward or difficult, it just was...right. Like you following Rebecca outside? Felt exactly as it should have, and maybe we had fallen in love in a sense. Its just that, at that age, isn't everything more potent, deliciously intense and genuine, and you just have no idea at the time how much you should treasure it, would come to treasure it, the experience, when your older, and know better?"_

_"Richer. Everything is richer, vibrant, painfully new and immediate. Yes, I understand, Ruth. It's the beauty and pain of childhood."_

_"Exactly, yes! It was vibrant. So, well, two years go by, and things are mostly as they were. Except I had become thirteen, fourteen, and he had made fifteen or sixteen, and things began taking on a different...tone. Our interactions went from innocent to something gradually more, um...suggestive. It was like every spoken word had double meaning, flush with innuendo and yearning. And physical. There was that, the painfully cautious and yet absolutely wonderful process of discovering what all these parts of you were meant for? And the dreams. Oh, God, Harry, I would have these dreams about him, and wake up just, I'm embarrassed to admit, it was lust, and love, and want. I just wanted to climb inside him. Which, as could be expected, was a feeling he reciprocated and we became, in very short time, both anxious and uncomfortable within each other's company. The physical proximity was the most delicious torture, I can still taste it."_

My God, this woman.

_"The first kiss was, well, if I'm honest, complete rubbish. We kept bumping noses, and couldn't decide which way the other would be leaning, where to put our hands, where _not_ to put our hands, it was...I guess it was beautiful in its way, too. With a little practice, we got the hang of it. So, it was the third kiss that I remember most. Do you want-"_

_"Yes. Absolutely."_

_"Well, I guess I realized that sitting side by side wasn't really...conducive, so I...I just climbed into his lap. We were in the park, and it was Paris, spring, of course. Had to be, right? I remember looking down into his face and feeling this...sense of power over him. Like we were the only two people in the world and I could make him do anything in that moment. Do you know what I mean?"_

_"As it happens, Ruth, I'm keenly familiar, yes. I'm quite certain you could have."_

_"I understand the hair fixation you mentioned. I do, because I couldn't stop my hands from running through his, and it just...fell together...we suddenly knew where to place our hands, and noses, and lips, and I held his face as I kissed him. I remember his hands moving to the middle of my back, and pulling me into him, pressing up and against, and when our tongues finally met, I thought something had broken inside me. Really, I thought I was coming down with fever, and everything was breathing and wet and I couldn't stop shaking, and he just whispered I love you, I love you, I love you, until I stopped moving. It was rather earth shattering, for me."_

_"Are you telling me you-"_

_"Climaxed? Yes. Too much?"_

_"No. No. No. I just...No, its fine. Its good. I'm good."_

_"You just spent your third question, you understand-"_

_"Fine. That's fine."_

_"Harry? Really, was that too much? You're doing that thing with your face, and I'm getting a bit concer-"_

What thing with my face?

_"No! Look, you hear about that, its like the Holly Grail of sexual mythology. The ability to...with only...I mean you never think its real, for bloody sake."_

She's going to make me say it. The look of complete confusion demanded that he elaborate if only to remove the deepening furrow forming between her raised eyebrows. She'll be the death of me. And what _thing_ with my face?

_"As a boy, you hear things. You know, wonder things, can a girl come by fondling her breasts, does she make noise, do they masturbate? And, right now, I'm loaded with a group of images. I just...Jesus, Ruth."_

_"Images?"_

_"C'mon Ruth! I am a man, for Christ's sake! Game or not you can't just drop something __like that and expect me not to envision descriptive visuals."_

_"Your visualizing me in the midst of climax? Right now?"_

_"Okay, I'll admit it, I was joking before, so, yeah, I started it. But right now what I need is for you not to say that word again. Just for...until the visions...just don't say climax again."_

_"Are you still seeing...me?"_

_"Ruth, I swear to God I think you did that on purpose. And yes, I am, no thanks to any mercy on your part."_

_"How's that self denial and control working for you now?"_

_"I'm at a considerable loss of both, thank you."_

If it weren't for his present state of extreme physical discomfort he would have paid closer attention to the tone decorating the question. As it stood, he was quite occupied by conflicting urges, the primary being one which longed to lay back and envision her as she described herself, enjoying the pulsing of his cock in his hand, the other counseling the more immediate need to remember she had been a girl of twelve or thirteen, and the subsequent thought of jacking himself off to _that vision_ left him both disgusted, and a throbbing set of bollocks. Nevertheless, the warning had been there, had he thought to notice, so her following statement should have been expected, if not entirely predictable.

_"You were wrong. You believe I think you limited? You think I don't look at you as understanding the emotional side? As being able to be emotional? You couldn't have been more incorrect if you tried, Harry. You are all emotion, you simmer with it, it radiates from you in waves, and I almost can't stand that I know that, and watch as you concentrate so hard to hide it. It breaks my heart, a little more everyday. But today, Harry, today you couldn't stop yourself, not in complete control, and your abilities at effective self denial left you hanging because you wanted more, you needed more, and you let me see it, clear as day. You wanted me to see it, because its...its who you are, Harry. You need me to see you. You know it, and I know it. So if I deliberately provoked you with words, or images, or suggestions, I'll not apologize because you have that effect on me every bloody day. And so now you've just a taste of what its like to be in your presence. Just a taste, Harry."_

_She will make you bleed._

Holy mother of God. Is this what she feels like? Whatever the equivalent of balls she possessed sucked so far up into her abdomen that the ache for him manifests as painful? Wound so tight that the slightest touch would set off a fireworks of uncontrollable physical urges that rendered her completely incapable of rational thought, reduced to her basest self, rutting under the moon for having required the desire to do so remain deeply restrained inside herself? And in allowing him that taste, that minimal hint of a taste, would he be granted opportunity and lunge his way for more? Did she want to consume him as he wanted to consume every minute inch of her naked, glistening body, her cunt throbbing and running with arousal, his fingers ramming into her as she bucks and begs to ride him, reaching for his cock, reaching for his soul? It's out of his mouth before he could stop it, and like that run away train speeding towards its catastrophic end, he gave himself up to her words, and her belief that he was not limited, stunted, emotionally inept, but radiating with need, and want, and love.

And love.

_"I want you. I want you, Ruth. Have done for some time."_

_"I'm aware, yes."_

_"You're aware? Don't cock tease me Ruth. I've hardly an understanding of what you're playing at right now, but cock teasing me to teach me some misguided lesson is a very bad idea. I'm not some green boy with no idea what, or where, to place my hands."_

_"Harry. Just...calm down. Please. I'm not playing at anything. I can assure you anything having to do with your cock is most certainly not about teasing you. I'm trying, very badly it seems, to tell you I...know you're not a boy. I, oh shag, I'm trying to tell you that I, I've wanted to find a way to...bollocks, I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you full on the mouth, and I want you to kiss me back. I want to nibble on your lips, and I want to feel them, know them, learn them. I want to hold your face and straddle your lap and-"_

He grabbed her, as she was talking, lifting her up and over him, his back screaming against him in effort, the spikes of pain forgotten the moment her body rested against him, on him, his cock straining against his trousers. She took his face in her hands, gently, reverently, dipping towards him, pulling back, adjusting the tilt of her head. Her eyes locked with his, her bottom lip stuck between her teeth, and he paused a moment to meditate on the vision of her above him, her trembling lip trapped in an effort to control her need, and he moved quickly, capturing her lip, sucking it between his, massaging it with his own, her moan filling his ears.

And then, quite magnificently, his world went blindingly white hot.

She was sucking on his lip, drawing it into her mouth, running her tongue along the surface, and he pulled back, placing his hands on either side of her head, leaning in and capturing hers between his teeth, pulling delicately, testing her threshold, releasing it only to draw it back between his lips, sucking gingerly until he couldn't stand the tension, parting her lips with his tongue, he ran it across her bottom lip, then her top, and then finally, delving into her mouth, the tip burning as it met hers, and the groan which escaped him felt as though it had been held captive within him for the whole of his life, waiting for this moment.

He could have stayed like that, theirs mouths locked and exploring the other, for the rest of their lives and not conceive of anything more desirable. His was on the cusp of telling her, confessing that and so much more out loud when he felt the tremor of her body, subtle, almost excruciatingly quiet, and he watched as she began to let go and roll with the wave rising within her. All he could think was _Holy Grail_, and he knew he needed to do little more than continue kissing her to bring her home. Settling himself beneath her, he smiled as she opened her eyes, body shaking, her mouth set in an 'O' shape he wanted nothing more than to nibble, mesmerized as she began to move, and his hands guided her from behind, leaning forward to capture her mouth again, drawing from her the panted breaths she expelled, tasting the wine, feeling her mouth the word 'Harry,' her face flushed and yet pale against the sky above her, rocking now, her softly whispered,_ I've wanted this, I've wanted this, you, you,_ mirroring the internal mantra playing within his own head.

He had leaned into her ear with the intention of nibbling her ear lobe, but was halted as she bucked suddenly, and was left to whisper, _I want to watch you, Ruth, _before leaning back to do exactly that. What she did then, as he watched, yearning and taunt with his own need, would live with him until his last moment of consciousness. She drew her hand from his head, reaching down between them, drawing her skirt up to expose a startlingly pale, smooth thigh, drawing a single finger beneath her panties, black, eclipsing the light of her skin briefly, drawing it back, and he saw it glistening, catching the light the way the moon was caught in the water's surface. She placed her fingertip against his bottom lip, and the scent it carried nearly drove him mad with need, coating it with her juices, his nostrils flaring in response, and she smiled as she slid her finger into his mouth. Rendered powerless, he became primally Pavlovian, sucking her finger, his tongue running the length, circling the tip, all but grunting his command for more, and as she made to draw her finger back, he bit down, using his own hand to draw her panties aside, his fingers each yearning to be covered in her juice, the marrow of her he had long yearned to consume.

He could have manipulated her climax then, with his fingers, adeptly massaging her wet, swollen pussy, but his need to taste and smell her as she watched him proved too seductive an option to decline, and he trailed her moisture along her exposed thigh as he locked eyes with her and began to suck his fingers, one by one, and she began to lick and nibble his lips simultaneously, and the thought that she was tasting herself as she tasted him became more erotically satisfying to him than if he had been sunk deep inside her.

She bucked again, and then again, and he thought he was on the verge of witnessing what was only whispered about when he were a boy, and never experienced as a man. It was cruel, he knew, but he chose that moment to whisper in her ear, _Tell me...Can you climax with only a kiss, Ruth? _She laughed, drawing in a breath suddenly, her head thrust skyward and her eyes closed, body glowing, her reply coming in bursts, her body bucking and rolling against him, _If...he knows...what...he's doing...Harry. _Reaching up, he drew her face to his, and as if she had issued a challenge, he began methodically ravaging her mouth wanting nothing more in that moment but to watch as she came.

Her movements became frenzied, and she wrapped one hand around his shoulder, the other placed against his chest, pulling her mouth from his, looking down, panting, watching herself as she ground against him, gasping as she gained speed, inhaling his mouth once again, whimpering against his lips, and he drew her hips towards him as she pushed her hand for better leverage against his chest. She cried out as the force of her climax thundered within her, and her face took on a look he thought indescribably beautiful.

She came apart, hovering above him, and yet encircling him, her scent suffusing the soft spaces around them, and he understood then what he could never have understood as a boy, as the man he had been before her. The complexities of the female form, the beauty of an anguished face while in the midst of ecstasy, the sounds of whimpering released like a chorus, all known to him, and yet almost pristine as he experienced them anew with her, as though he had been asleep the better part of his life.

What rang magically new was the certain knowledge the power of a kiss driven climax could never be matched in his memory, and would never in any circumstance be granted lightly, or faked. It was very like the mythical Holy Grail because it existed as the culminating result of absolute love, absent fondling manipulations, words, friction, invasion. It was, in the simplest terms, the purest expression of souls connecting, a celebration, rare and understandably believed to be extinct.

He was reminded of a John Boorman movie he'd happened to see years ago. Arthurian in theme, the Holly Grail was depicted as that rare vessel which granted a rebirth, cured that sickness of the soul bereft of hope and humanity, generosity, forgiveness, and that uncommon ability to both give and receive love. At the time, the message had little affect him, but as he thought on it presently, he felt it expand in his chest, his unexpected chance to find himself worthy of her within his grasp.

The theme has been recycled numerous times in the period between then and now, and formed the treasure most sought after, and desperately protected in the Dan Brown series he had devoured when last sailing the Mediterranean. The Grail had been, ironically, a person, a descendant of Jesus, holding within her proof of his humanity, his sacrifice. It was light reading, the historical aspects had appealed to him at the time, as did the espinonage-lite plot, but the symmetry to Ruth allowed it clearer emphasis, and he brushed the strands of hair that had fallen across her face to expose her half closed eyes, and soft smile.

_"No, please don't move, Harry. I just want to...listen to your heartbeat. I love the feel of it beating against my cheek."_

Muffled against his chest, the request was only slightly slurred, owing to wine or orgasm he wouldn't guess, though he suspected likely a consequence of both. He could feel the weight of her head, and the warmth emanating as it rested next to his heart, and the heat of her hand as it delicately stroked his erect cock through the fabric, and he chuckled softly at the realization that he'd little need for anything further than this simple embrace.

_"I think you misunderstood me, Ruth. Earlier."_

_"Humm?"_ He liked the way her voice felt as it hummed against his chest. The feel of it, the sound, lazy and sated, etched its way into his memory as her face contorted in ecstasy had burned through him. Her fingers applying slight pressure, and his hips churning beneath, cautiously.

_"I asked you not to say climax."_

_"So, you think I decided to have one instead, is that it?"_

_"Something like that."_

_"Tell me...How do you feel? The truth."_

_"I was given to understand the game is based on truth. And curiosity, of course."_

_"I told you you'd like it. You do, admit it."_

_"I like this game very much, Ruth. Rather grateful to it, if I'm honest."_

_"So, tell me...how do you feel?"_

_"Alive. I feel alive, Ruth."_

_"I'm...glad. That's good."_

_"And you? Tell me...how do you feel?"_

_"Oh, Harry. I feel...I feel like I've been hibernating before now. I feel like I'm safe with you. I feel like every moment of my life has been leading to this, to you. All prelude, before you. I feel like I'm dreaming, any minute I'll wake up, and my ceiling will be above me, and my bed will be half empty, and the loneliness, it will crush me, Harry. I feel like I'm waiting for it all to be taken away from me. And I just want to lay here and listen to your heartbeat because then I'll know, I'll know that you're real, and I'll know that you really did kiss me, and I'll know that you really did watch me as I climaxed and you smiled, and there was so much wonder and care in your eyes, and I'll know that all this...you and me...I'm not imagining it, that I'm not half mad from wanting you, and needing you, and-"_

He silenced her with his lips, wanting to quiet the tumult of words, wanting her to understand, without need of words, that he was here with her, would always be with her if she would only allow it, that he felt the same, that he loved that she rested against his heart like it was her home, her safe place similar to what she had offered him so long ago after Clive. She tasted so right to him, as though his tongue had been waiting for her to ripen, every other woman paling and soured in the comparison, his own years of prelude to her.

_"I want to stay here, with you, Harry. I wish we could just stay here together. I...I can't believe that came out of my mouth, but it's true, just the same. I just want to be with you. I can't...I can't think straight for wanting it." _

Her mouth began a trail of kisses along his neck, back again to his ear, drawing his earlobe between her teeth, licking the tip as she bit down slightly, and he gave himself over to the force of her touch, tilting his head back to allow access, the freedom he felt with her both frightening and exhilarating.

_"I've wanted to do this, you've no idea how long."_

She parted the collar of his shirt, her fingertips barely glancing across the surface of his skin, exposing the juncture, the 'V' shaped divot marking his collarbone, dipping her finger into her wine, allowing the drops to land cradled in the center, her tongue moving to lap at him, kissing and sucking at his flesh. He could feel her hair brushing his chin, smell the scent that had become tied to her in his mind, the olfactory hallmark announcing her, freesia, some faint hint of gardenia, mixed with the spice intrinsic to her state of seemingly habitual arousal, and he knew he would not stop at being a spectator this time, knew that he had to sink himself into her, claim her, invade and thrust within her.

He moved quickly, laying her down, her eyes sapphire spheres glowing as he lifted her skirt, exposing her trembling thighs, the hair adorning her pussy barely hinted at through the material of her black panties. And there was something about the close, salty air, the water lapping quietly further down, and the smell of moss, strands of seagrass, that combination mixed with her scent, the quiet of their peaceful solitude pierced by her moans lifting upwards and merging with the darkened midnight sky above them which undid him, decimated his self imposed fortress, the boxes of himself lain open, contents spilling all around her, and he was quite beyond able to stop himself, had little desire to do so even if he had thought to try.

"_I love you to the sky, and back._

_In the oceans we swim,_

_On the Milky Way we glide._

_And the stars we hold._

_And if you should fall from me,_

_Sat side by side our yellow crescent moon,_

_I will catch your hand,_

_I will stop your fall,_

_And never, ever let go." _

With every word spoken as prayer to her he felt the bindings within him loosen, could envision them as they came undone, placing gentle kisses along her inner thighs, the realization he had memorized the pledge the moment he'd heard her voice caress the words occurring to him for the first time. Smiling to himself, appropriate, he'd thought, as he drew her panties away, and gazed at her for what he believed was the first time he'd ever truly seen her, the soul of her, as her eyes, _her eyes_, held him, and he was surprised to find his hands were shaking in a way uncharacteristic of him, the him he had become giving way to the him he had once been, the person his mother had wanted him to become, the man who understood the gift lain before him as he now realized he never had with Jane, or the others, the numerous others comprising his own prelude.

She had become everything. She was all and absolute, and though he had yet to touch and caress every part of her, his certainty that he already knew the physical map of her, could navigate every inch as if retracing what had never before been seen or touched was keen.

As he entered her, his senses overloading as she enveloped him with warmth, his body going entirely numb, an instinctually desperate response to counter the maddeningly feverish explosion within him, his mind emptied of any thought beyond her, sinking deeper, her sigh as she drew her legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he thought he had never in his life been deeper, never in his life been rendered so acutely vulnerable, never in his life felt he understood what it meant to find a home before now.

Moving within her, her swollen pussy, hot, so wet he could hear every thrust and withdrawal as their hips came together slowly, drawing it out, her hands pushing him further on his bum, and hers lifting to meet every thrust, painfully slow, the air catching his cock as he withdrew to the tip, cooling, and he grasped himself to massage her inflamed clit, covering it with the first drops of his seed, wanting their scents to merge, wanting to taste both, the combination they made, wanting to do everything at once, feeling the stumbling adolescent and the grown, broken man simultaneously.

They were still more than three quarters clothed and something about that appealed to his baser urges, the illicit, sudden unexpectedness of finding himself inside her surpassing any fantasy he'd thought to entertain previous, and he watched her eyes dilate as the slow bucking of her body announced her coming climax, sinking all the way into her as he drew her face to his, grinding against her, so deep and yet not deep enough. He almost whimpered with the thought she understood his need, his desire to merge entirely within her, when she pushed him back, leaned up on her elbows as he fell back onto his knees,_ I want to watch_, as she rolled her hips against him, her eyes focused on where they joined, his cock glistening with her juice, and his eyes focused on her face as it contorted, as her jaw began to tremble, as her rhythm increased, and the deliciously wet sound they made was the only thing his ears would hear.

He watched the play of her stomach muscles as they moved against her shirt, as she drew herself up against him, her nipples hard against his chest, and the friction of clothing was very nearly unimaginably painful. She was riding him, her hips bucking rhythmically, her breath carrying quiet bursts of sound, panting, her back arching as she rolled against him, looking down, the audible, _Ummmm_ passing from between her lips halted as her teeth captured the bottom, bitting down, and his hands pulling her violently with every thrust, watching, too, as he disappeared inside her, his nearly guttural _fuck me_ emerging from between gritted teeth, drawing a smile from her, and if he'd thought he had given over earlier, he realized in that moment the belief a certain misapprehension as his body unleashed itself of the restraints he'd only partial understanding were there.

He'd never been, in the past, a customarily vocal lover, but he found himself incapable of controlling the words, the sounds passing his lips and was delighted to find her of similar mind, her pants becoming commands in his ear, their battering against one another verging on violent, each _Oh God_ from her louder than the one before, and his _fuck me_ becoming a simplified, single _fuckme _in answer, a harsh mantra whispered repeatedly in her ear. He meditated her throat as her head thrust back on her shoulders, her body bucking furiously on his cock, her pussy squeezing against him, milking his release to the breaking point, and he would have stayed like that for as long as she rode the crest but for her whispered _Come, Harry, I want to feel you come_, and he felt not the slightest bit self conscious as he slammed her down on his pulsing cock, once, twice, and exploded within her, his face held in her hands, and her eyes intent on watching every emotion he exposed from deep within him.

She had collapsed against him, and he could feel the barest hint of spasms in his back, as the adrenaline released began receding to pick at those aged bones in his body which had long since prevented him from engaging sexual congress without the comfort of a bed, and yet he held onto her, and his cock continued to twitch within her, aftershocks, which produced the pleasant circumstance wherein she began to move over him again, slowly, her forehead against his neck, drawing him in, unhurried, gradually, and his cock began to throb so quickly he knew he must have died.

He watched her, intent on seeing what he could bring her to, and she smiled into his eyes as her look took on one closest to agony in description, her hands on his shoulder and the back of his neck. He reached in between them, finding her swollen clit, and pinched it between thumb and forefinger, over and over, stopping only to insert one finger to join his cock, using another to massage her over the edge, amazed that she could remain aroused, that she could effortlessly accommodate his considerable size and more, yet remain so exquisitely tight around him. The force of her climax, her third, not that he was counting, proved more powerful than before, aided, he had little doubt, by her decision to join her hand with his, massaging the portions of his cock as he exposed it, and her own clit, while she stared intently into his face, and he knew from that moment forward he would make love to her every moment of every day from that moment until the Apocalypse, and count himself blissfully happy.

She maneuvered her right leg over his shoulder, and he had the fleeting image of an illustration from the Karma Sutra seen years ago which fled just as quickly as she moaned, _So we can both see, I want you to see_, and it became mere moments later that he watched as they both came, her sopping, bucking cunt virtually eating his cock as he strained with her to give her everything in him.

It was the most erotic thing he had ever witnessed or experienced. He had the bite mark on his shoulder to remind him, branding him even years later.

"I do," she whispered.

"I do," he replied.

And though he'd little reason to know it for a certainty then, the vow became both the most magnificent and torturous two words he'd ever spoken, or would ever speak, in his lifetime.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**A/N: I offer luxurious amounts of gratitude to NavyLady, Sparky75, Transmissionends64, NatesDate, and, of course, Sherlock1921, for never failing to review, and encourage me to continue. And welcome to that club VitaSeptima, and VelocityGirl. Thank you all! Your tickets entitle you all to this extended ride on the imagination train that is my lunatic brain, should you find yourselves still willing. And before anyone gets the idea that this scene by the silo (yes, _that_ silo) is over, let me assure you, its not by a long shot. Only about 1:00am their time. ;P**


	18. Chap18: The Stained Feather

**A/N: Meanwhile, back at the silo...**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

"If you could only see

I couldn't love you more

If you belong to me

I'll hold you

I'll keep you

But I get so hypnotized

I'm lost

I'm paralyzed

I want to hear your lies

You choke me

You bleed me

I want to die

When I feel you inside my mind"

-Trap, Elizaveta

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"__You memorized it?"_

They were curled into one another, each trying to manipulate their physical extremities to ensure nothing was left exposed or abandoned from the other, and he had the brief, yet absurd image of a post-coital human pretzel. He was pleasantly stated, and her soft sighs as they ran their fingers lightly over each other left him with the cautious certainty she was as content as he.

Her words had floated to him across the silence that had cocooned them for a time, and he ignored the immediate desire to sidestep an answer, the urge owing to years of necessity, crumbling as she fondled his hand, her nails tickling the underside of his palm, drawing it to her lips and kissing each fingertip, the tip of her tongue meditating the pulse point of his inner wrist.

_"__As they were spoken, yes. That first time. Did you know I was...there...watching?"_

_"__I always know when you're there, Harry. Yes, I knew. The surface of my skin feels as though it reaches for you when you're near to me, by which I mean, anywhere in London. Its...like some instinct I never knew I had until you touched it somehow. I...I don't know the words to describe other than to say I feel you."_

_"__I think I understand. Its the same for me, and I've no better means to describe the effect any more than you. Potent. Its...unnervingly potent, comes closest. Well, if I'm honest, its my libido that seems to pinpoint your proximity first, and I've spent the better part of six months attempting to maintain some control there."_

_"__You must be tired."_

_"__You've no idea, Ruth."_

_"__And now?"_

_"__I couldn't sleep if I were drugged. To do so now would...cost precious time...to me...with you. Not for all the money in the world, Ruth."_

Which wasn't entirely true, he thought, as his free hand grasped at her hair, allowing the silken strands to cascade through his fingers, shivering before retracing his steps. He _would_ trade every moment spent between the legs of every woman before her to have her name as the single name contained within his file. He _would_ trade all the time spent wasted before her, to have her, now, and for the remainder of his days. He _would_ trade precious years off his life to know that he could give in to the morpheus call to sleep, curled around one another, if he knew for a certainty this moment would stretch into eternity.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

They had been laying side by side, breathing synchronizing into one breath, one chest rising and falling, her head against his heart, her chest nestled next to him, and he loved the feel of her beating heart next to the soft flesh of his side. She had entwined her leg between his, and he had without thinking on it, wrapped his arm around her, his other hand resting around her middle thigh, fingertips brushing the underside of exposed skin, and the stillness surrounding him, the heartbreaking simplicity of them, in this moment, very nearly cleaved him in two.

_"__Harry? I...I need to tell you...I want to tell you...about Peter and me. The truth. Well, the parts you don't already know."_

She had unbuttoned a few buttons along his shirt, sliding her fingers underneath and stroking the soft flesh of his side, brushing along the trail of hair adorning his lower abdomen, and he felt his stomach shudder in response, the movements of her fingers both erotic and torturously slow, squirming away from her quickly as she identified a particularly sensitive ticklish spot just inside his right hip bone.

As they were still three quarters clothed, the impression was deliciously lurid, appealing, as though he had not already found himself sheathed deeply within her, but was allowing her to direct the course, a virgin testing her own wants and needs, and he content to watch the play of discovery as it decorated and evolved on her face, hoping to be invited to make his home within her.

Drawing her closer to him, he wrapped both arms around her, and she readjusted, laying herself fully across the length of him, her chin resting against his sternum, her arms curled against her sides, one hand placed against his heart, stomach warm and breathing against his still half erect cock, and he envisioned her a seed nestled inside the core of some ripe and bursting fruit, as her eyes watched him for a reaction, waiting quietly as he turned over their discarded basket, softening it with his folded jacket, to rest his head against as he smiled and regarded her.

She opened another button, one handed, and breathed deeply as she drew it aside to expose his skin, her face forming the picture of regarding something both desired and painfully tender, and his customary need to hide the physical scars marking his history evaporated as she placed her lips against him, sucking the flesh into her mouth, running her tongue lazily against him, the wet traces catching the breeze, and his nipples hardened to a point he thought they would be rendered altogether numb for days to come.

_"__I love your skin, Harry. I love the taste of it, the softness, I'm finding it maddeningly difficult not to chew on you, the feel of it between my teeth...You have the most deliciously touchable skin, do you know that?" _

_"__No, I didn't, but I'm happy you think so."_

_"__You didn't know you paced, either."_

_"__Only in a good way, I've been told."_

_"__Oh, yes. It seems we've spent a good deal of time watching."_

_"__Eons."_

_"__I'm glad we stopped. Just watching, that is. The feel of you...inside me...I'll not be able to live with only memory, Harry."_

_"__I'm loathe you would believe there a necessity to try. I'll confess now a complete inability to bother attempting."_

She continued to tease his skin, feeling her smile in what he hoped was agreement, nibbling him gently, lapping at the marks she left with her tongue, her fingers tracing the scars they found, the braille of his body's volatile existence merging with the marks of his devotion to her, and wondered offhandedly how many would remain pink and pulsing along the physical map of him. Would they remain, branding him hers, after she had gone?

Had he been that adolescent he'd envisioned himself earlier, thoroughly devolved and urgent, he would have moved to take her again, the yearning to establish prowess, the challenge to examine how many times, in how short a time, how quickly, how long, the answers to sexual questions that are so very vital to one newly introduced to the pleasures found within the female form would have demanded he act. Strangely, he was content to lay languid as she examined him, as her lips and teeth grazed him, worshiped him in a way he had never in his life experienced or allowed, even with Jane.

He shouldn't have found himself surprised, then, as the image of Jane flit across his sated consciousness, that Ruth, giving in to her confessed weakness, bit down on the flesh of his lower abdomen, harder than she had encouraged him to quickly become accustomed, and his resulting yelp was as much a signal of his surprise as his brief discomfort. Her eyes were unfeasibly wide as she stared at him, her mouth dropping open in the way he had come to yearn for, so closely reminiscent of her face amidst the agony and ecstasy of climax so recently exposed.

_"__Oh, I'm...too hard? I'm...sorry. I didn't mean to...go that far. I just, my God, Harry, your bloody skin...I just want to...consume you whole. I'm sorry, did it hurt that much?"_

He meditated the question for a moment, owing largely his need to decide between fucking her, or answering. And then fucking her. The bite _had_ hurt, but the pain had just as quickly evolved, during the course of her admission, to a low thrumming, and his cock, which, he noted curiously, had never reacted to pain in such a way previous, announced itself a fan anew, along with its recently revealed affinity for games.

_"__A good hurt, Ruth. A deliciously good and painful hurt that becomes a low ache, and I find...I quite like it. Your need to bite...consume me."_

_"__It really just begs to be touched, Harry. Fondled and caressed, like nothing I've ever seen. Your almost...iridescent. The moonlight on your skin. Women would kill for your skin. Don't laugh, its true! Hundreds of millions of dollars spent in achieving just this type of flawless, dewy touch-ability. God, its fucking wonderful. Your skin. Sweet, soft, I just can't stop wanting to taste you, kiss you, lick you. I sound as though I've well and truly gone round, don't I?"_

_"__I rather like to think you're just catching up to me, waiting on the other side. I have been, Ruth. Waiting for you. Seems my whole life I've been waiting just to see you in the distance."_

He'd hope she would reply, understand intuitively, as they seemed to have always understood one another, and found that her decision not to speak, but to pull herself along his body, and place her lips against his, resting her arousal against his newly exposed stomach, dewy in it's own right, was, in fact, exactly what he preferred she do, and more than a little surprised he had thought otherwise.

_"__Did you always feel it?"_

All my life, Ruth.

_"__I'll confess it seems so, yes. Well, I can't identify a time when I didn't, might be more accurate to say. I thought you to have snuck up on me, completely unconscious, was my first, ummm, evaluation. But really, I can tell you that you were an explosion of sorts, and you dismantled all the things I'd carefully secreted away. But it was so, I don't know, quiet? So...authentic, the reaction inside, oddly familiar. I just, well, I was left somewhat undone."_

_"__When did you know?"_

_"__What? That you were different from...from the others?"_

_"__Yes. The others."_

Her brow had creased slightly with the mention of them, the others that preceded her, and he understood then the magnitude of folly they had been, lined up, explored, empty, as though he were trying to fill a void with additional void, insubstantial and base.

_"__When I stopped sleeping with other women. That was...let's see? Yes, right about the time I found your book. The Ovid. I knew I wanted it for you. I couldn't understand why...Or, how to present it, for that matter, but I could not stop myself from acquiring it with the hope to eventually manipulate a way to give it to you which would appear, on its face, innocent. I was walking down the street with it in my arms before I'd really become conscious I'd bought it."_

He chose not to mention the night he'd thought to have lost her to the fates. That evening when he had requested she call him to let him know she had arrived safely, despite his intuition urging him to take her to his, providing a safe house of a different sort, rather than allow her to take refuge in another which experienced a late night fireworks display of weaponry which remained unnerving enough to him he would come over nauseous with the merest hint of memory.

Or, her face when she gazed at Danny, fallen, her tender caresses paving his way beyond them.

Or, her ingenious "Spook Cabs." The fact that she had recruited people everyone customarily overlooks, so very like something he would do, cab drivers, shop keepers, postal workers, her innate cleverness fueling his belief they were already intertwined. Had always been.

Or, Fortescue, her face brimming with anger, calling him out, branding him a coward, her blatant insubordination a potent aphrodisiac to his psyche.

So many times, moments past and present, when he knew she would become, to him, both the agony and ecstasy of his life.

_"__Innocent? Presenting a woman with a book of love poems written by Ovid? You expect me to believe that?"_

_"__I didn't say that I thought it through very well. I had thought...that you were...receptive...to a point, and I...Truth is, I couldn't decide if it was real or my imagination, and since there was still a question there, I thought I...It was easy to tell myself I might have a chance. With you. Also, you did mention that I was very good at talking you on side. Gifted is the word you used, if memory serves. I can pull the record."_

_"__I'm sure you can."_

_"__Well, you'll find I'm fairly well connected, Ruth. As relates undisclosed information, anyway."_

She had laughed aloud at his self depreciation, and he was again granted opportunity to watch as her nose crinkled in effort, the act burning itself into his memory to treasure until she chose to bestow it again, and he, hoping silently, the single most cause. She had begun running her fingers along his forehead, thumbs tracing his eyebrows, kissing the space in between, and he used the opportunity to run his tongue along her throat, feeling the _hummmm_ she emitted as it traveled until released into the air surrounding them.

_"__Did you like it? You never did say?"_

_"__Its too hard to say. I can't decide if I liked the book or the treasure hunt more? You think me a fan of games, and there's you working out a treasure hunt for me to follow. I can't decide which I adore more, if I'm honest."_

_"__Well, I couldn't very well present it to you on the Grid, you know, with everyone...I mean, talk about fuel for gossip. Can you even imagine? I was already overstepping the line, and I knew that. Keenly aware, you might say. And with the Tom situation, and Salter before him? Had you heard about Peter Salter? No? Well, he fell in love, and it destroyed him. Hung himself. Actually hung himself on the Grid. in the loo, of all places. He was Tom's mentor. It was a...difficult time. And like Tom, a potent cocktail of disillusionment and the love of a woman to blame, its...it became twisted up in knots, and he believed dying was the right choice, or at least better than staying with the services. Not that the option remained available, in the end. I think Tom came to feel it as an emotional death in some tragically personal way. A physical death would have been a predictable footnote for him, had he stayed, I'm afraid. A necessary bookend for having died emotionally."_

_"__And then you barreled through the door. I can still see you, Ruth, fussing with that lamp, and I felt some kind of pull inside, I couldn't stop watching you. You quickly became a tightrope I hadn't ever dreamed of needing to prepare for. I thought I was done with...That I couldn't hope to find someone who could...move me the way you did. It was something I'd thought I'd forfeited the right to some years ago, Ruth. And, inappropriate. Though, well, now it would seem less egregious...Certainly more inappropriate, us, now, and...for an entirely different set of reasons. Not unpleasant, mind you. Mind blowing in an absolutely inappropriate and fundamentally providential way, at once. I've neither the strength nor the inclination to forfeit it now, I'm afraid."_

_"__I'd sooner sever a limb."_

_"__Let's hope it won't come to that. I like your limbs."_

_"__As do I, Harry."_

She had breathed it into his ear, her breath tickling the soft hair, her teeth forever nipping at him, and he found himself stunned at the ease with which they communicated, the deep sense of self pouring from them, as a gift to the other, unencumbered by carefully constructed facades, each blindingly illuminated for the other by words and actions. _They were lovers_, he thought, and fast on the heels of this was the thought,_ It was always thus, _painfully obvious to him now in every thought or gesture preceding this moment.

He moved to slide her under him, placing his leg between, the area above his knee nestled against her moistened center, and placed his hands on either side of her face, wanting only to see himself reflected in her eyes, reborn in the affection he read in their depths. He traced the scar he presumed left by Angela not so long ago, brushing his lips against it, wanting her to understand he wanted all of her, the dark shadows and the blinding light, in equal measure. And, as if reading his mind, as only she seemed adept at fathoming almost without discernible effort, she breathed deeply, placed her lips against his, saying his name against them, before pulling away, her hair a halo in his hands.

He concentrated on her face, deliberately forcing back the burgeoning jealously that wanted entry, demanding pride of place within him, stroking her hair back from her face in an effort to distract himself his baser need to express his unearned entitlement outright. The void within him celebrated his frustration, knowing the truths she would tell far more innocent than the ones held within him by comparison, knowing that when she was done, he would have a confession of his own to offer, one involving her father and the depth of his manipulative achievements she'd only gleaned in magnitude.

Were he the man who questioned the wisdom of bringing her here to this secluded spot he'd thought himself, his evaluation running frenetically across his consciousness throughout the distance traveled to this lonely place, he would have deliberately distracted her, placed his lips against her clit and brought her to a mindless climax designed specifically to ensure the delay of confessions on both sides. And he wanted to. God help him, the truth was, he wanted to, and not simply as a means for delay, or distraction, but as that newly born and cautiously budding seed resplendent in the sun, yet dying of drought.

Patiently, he waited, watched as she internally prepared the words, the means by which to tell him what he found he no longer yearned to hear, and still could not turn from, deaf and unyielding. He was no longer that man. He was something new, undefined, and wonderfully alive.

He could almost hear the scream from the void inside him, the rage and unwillingness to reform himself emanating from that dark shadow acute, and hoped that it was not reflected in his eyes, those windows she had confessed told her everything he'd previously sought desperately to keep hidden. As if to smooth the way for her as much as quiet his internal confusion, he grasped the remaining straw left to him.

_"__Ruth? Tell me...about Peter."_

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"__We were close, Peter and me. Not from the beginning, but gradually. Initially, I think he had this idea of who I would be. He'd confessed as much to me, later. Thought I would be more like my mother. I've not spoken to you of her. She's quite beautiful, my mother. Elegant and graceful. My father adored her. Would watch her perform the most mundane tasks with this look of...well, complete rapture, really. I remember looking the word up one day, when I was very young, and the definition struck me immediately as similar to how my parents looked at one another. 'Extreme happiness and delight in something.' It was a perfect description, and I love that word to this day. I just love that it sounds exactly like what it means. Do you know what I mean? When you find a word is just so beautiful in meaning and sound you kind of fall in love with it, the idea of it?"_

_"__I've always been fond of 'Moisture,' myself. Which, I'll grant you, rather lacks the bells and whistles of 'Rapture,' but Ben would say it instead of cursing, and I laughed every time I heard it. I still do, no matter the circumstances, and I always think of Ben." _

_"__Moisture. Your word is Moisture."_

_"__Yes, and before you judge, just say it first. Its really very funny."_

_"__I just did. Twice."_

_"__And...it was delightful, filled me with extreme levels of happiness, and also had the added virtue of being consistently funny."_

Her face graced him with a smile that stretched so wide he could count every tooth within if he was of a mind to try. And he delighted in the way her eyes danced as she ducked her head, bobbing, the laugh she was trying to contain erupting from her as a combination guffawed raspberry, her breath, tasting of wine, and him, exploding across his face. He closed his eyes, smiling as he constructed another memory to secret and cherish. He reopened his eyes when she lightly tapped his forehead with her index finger, kissing the spot gently, moving to the tip of his nose, and finally brushing his lips, careful not to nibble too hard, though he'd half a mind to tell her not to bother trying. He liked a wantonly uncontrolled Ruth more than could be considered healthy at his advancing age. Besides, he told himself, bite marks were quickly advancing their way up his scale of measured eroticism.

_"__Shall I continue?"_

_"__You never need to ask if I want you to kiss me, Ruth."_

_"__The story, Harry."_

_"__That, too. And the kissing, just so we're clear."_

_S_he gave him one more quick peck, not lasting time enough for him to pucker properly with the goal of further distraction, and settled back down underneath him, her hands resting against his chest, her face open and affectionate, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly in amusement. If she loved his skin, he would, in the not too distant future, be forced to regale her the wonders and miracle he felt intrinsic to her full, lovely mouth. He adored her mouth, and if she wanted to use that entrancing mechanism to speak, who was he to argue? He was blissfully languid, regardless.

_"__They were very good with each other. Ummm, they balanced well, and whatever nurturing one couldn't provide, the other could. For me, that is. It was a home full of love that they made. Palpable. It was almost cruel, really, to witness something so rare and be made to believe it available on offer to every living soul. And maybe it is, its just that the fact that it is available doesn't always mean you know it. Or find it."_

Bugger watching her mouth.

He had acted on impulse then, moving to kiss her neck, feeling her hands come around to the back of his head, her nails dragging a pattern across his skull that had him feverish in an instant, very nearly mewling his approval, whispering her name into her ear before biting the lobe. She had arched her body into him, and he used the opportunity to draw his leg tighter against her, sliding his hand underneath her bum, drawing her up and against him, the sigh she released confirming to his ears she understood his intention, knew he felt as her father had, and that her wait was mercifully over if he had even the slightest control over such. He smiled into her mouth, sucking at the flesh as she rolled her hips, and whispered his name.

_"__So...Mmmmm...you're so...Jesus...Ummm, okay so, wait, okay."_

If he were honest, he'd admit to deriving a good deal of pleasure at her discomfort, her inability to multitask her confession and submit to his lips's ministrations. She had been, for the most part, the aggressor, and he the uncharacteristically fumbling novice so entranced by this frequently fantasized, darker side of her that he hadn't even begun to utilize the techniques culled and stored within his multifaceted sexual arsenal. So, it was a bit cruel, his decision to select carefully his weapon, but in the line of something both pleasurable and painful, merging together as one physical urge, and your libido straining at cross purposes. Well perhaps, he thought, it was time she experience what it had been for him, in her presence, yearning and defenseless these long months, a lesson he calculated well and truly earned if he were asked to offer comment.

_"__Well, mother had sold the house, the one I grew up in, and so when I returned, it felt as though it were more a visit than coming home. Like I would occupy a guest room for a time, but would never really belong there. And until I met Jean Paul, I'd felt that keenly, being a guest, visiting but not belonging. Anyway, so leaving Jean Paul was, oh it was, terrible, and beautiful, and we behaved exactly as one would expect two people in love to behave as their time together becomes limited. He was my first, and I his. It was soul crushing, and intense every time, and I was left despondent when time eventually came to make our goodbyes. I sobbed the entire way over, just heartbroken, really. I had gradually come to terms with my father's death, due in no small part to Jean Paul, and now, there I was, alone, and evaluating this sudden new family, as mother referred to it, with more than a fair amount of foreboding."_

With the exception of her father, he counted possibly three great loves in her life, and pondered the possibility that she had ever engaged in anything more meaningless sexually. As it stood, the answer appeared to be not ever, her heart was given entirely, and, recent circumstances being what they were, he wondered the potential future they might have as more an actuality, rather than the fanciful stuff of dreams. Superficially, he reminded himself he had also counted two, possibly three, great loves, and just as quickly as that thought passed, his heart cruelly reminded him of the thirty four S24s, which rather put paid to his meaningless sexual proclivities. Jealous though he might be, he nevertheless felt a tinge of gratitude for her previous lost loves as they had been part of the world's wheel which turned, and eventually brought her to him, waiting all along.

Still, he counseled himself, it wouldn't hurt to reiterate those loves remained firmly entrenched in the past.

_"__Have you ever been...tempted to...find him? Jean Paul, I mean."_

_"__Yes, but strangely, I've never done a thing in that regard. I guess...I guess I prefer to let it all lie, a beautiful, unadulterated memory. I want...I'm happy to imagine him happy, healthy. It is enough that he remains my first, always, and that will never change regardless life's circumstances. I've come to understand that my experience is rare, or I should say, one that I don't feel compelled to cringe in shame or discomfort in the rare moments my mind draws up the memory of him. So many women truly loathe the thought of their first time. I'm very fortunate. Really, it can be horrible. Women talk. I mean, think about it Harry, how many things in this world can you say you want but which hold almost absolute certainty to be disappointing, for at least one of you, at the outset then losing your virginity?" _

It was a loaded question if ever he had heard one, and like a nervous, hormonal adolescent on a first date, he chose not to ponder the question as relates their budding relationship, and allowed his mind to visit the benefits of such instead.

Mainly, ever the manipulator, he much preferred a conversation which revolved entirely on the subject of sex which had the added benefits of both engaging Ruth, and furthering his present goal of engaging in additional displays of a more physical bent than verbal.

_"__Well, I have to confess, I thoroughly enjoyed it, though I take your meaning as relates the distinct difference for women. I should hope that she enjoyed my efforts, in any case. We were, it might surprise you to know, both virgins."_

_"__Really? I would have thought...I'd imagined there was some older woman obsessed with your cherubic face and golden, youthful body. I did! I'm stunned to find you waited. You are a romantic, Harry. As relates your virgin's pleasure, well, you hope she enjoyed your efforts, but you can't be sure, can you? I really asked the wrong question, earlier."_

He couldn't contain the laugh that erupted from him, watching as she moved beneath the rumbling of his chest, and was again struck by how deeply happy and content he was, amused both by her words and the revelation he had pantomimed being happy before her. That she had even bothered to consider his first time with a woman was a bonus he'd neither hoped for nor imagined.

_"__Well, as a boy, no, I likely wouldn't know the difference between genuine enjoyment or some fabrication. Thankfully, I'm not saddled with that particular limitation presently. Still, I would hate to find that subsequent she felt any shame, or did not look back on it fondly, as you say, even if it wasn't the most satisfying experience of her life. I'd hate to find she'd developed some manner of eating disorder everyone warned me about when Catherine was born, as though because she proved a girl, the structure of potential psychic damage was heightened beyond what I could possibly understand. Really, you laugh, but for years I feared Jane would come to me and reveal Catey had developed some eating disorder, or some such, and blame me. She did with Graham, eventually. But that is both ironic, and a story for another time, my Ruth." _

_"__That's...that's awful, Harry. I'm sorry, I know I'm laughing, but really? Eating disorders? It's ridiculous, totally uncalled for, and I'm the daughter of a doctor."_

_"__I know that now. Then I was, Jesus, I was so young. We both were, Jane and me. Suddenly there was this squalling person who hadn't been there before, and the fear was primary. Its the first thing I remember. Given what I did for a living, this miniature genetic combination of us both, the best of us really, became the most important thing I had ever done. Within seconds of holding her, I knew on some instinctual level I would literally kill with my bare hands anyone who harmed her, or even thought to do so. It didn't help that I navigated a professional environment in which such was easily envisioned, condoned, even encouraged. I was too young. Too young by far, and it got the better of me. Honestly, I wish my mother had...I missed my mother on an almost primal level during those first few years. Then along came Graham, and the fear had lessened, but it was still palpable. It was as if I knew I would fail them, ultimately. I was not equipped to...Well, another time, Ruth." _

He felt the breath of her deep exhalation on his face, as she reached to hold his head, her eyes bright and delving into his. He closed his eyes, as much for her physical contact as a means to hide the worst of him from her, but she held him tighter and he luxuriated under the much yearned for contact.

_"__I wish you could understand how deeply and thoroughly you love, Harry. You're made of love, the difficulties arise only when you fight against it. It seems to have always been that way. I wasn't playing at anything when I told you as much. It was the first thing I noticed about you. It hurts to watch you deny the truth of you. It made me want to be that place where you could...the safe place we talked about? I've always thought of it like some people are born with certain inherent gifts. Genius, the individual measure, given to each and ours to discover, shared like a gift. Like writers, or musicians? The really exceptional examples perform in a state of near unconsciousness, letting their particular gift explode from them organically. Your gift, Harry, is an intense regard for human beings, and it explodes from you by way of affection and love. I adore it, for the brief moments I've been granted opportunity to see it, and loathe those numerous alternatives I'm more familiar with. Which makes your choice to submerge into a professional field at absolute odds with your given emotional nature a curiosity to me. And, before you say it, a topic for another time. Another time, my Harry."_

She was everything to him, any future parting as unspeakable to him as asking he sacrifice either of his children to save himself, as though she had become as fundamentally tied to him as Catherine and Graham, each representing the best and worst of himself, entrusted with the hope each would prove better than him, as she already had. Inconceivable any parting, though plausible in their shared profession, this business that had called to his damaged, young heart, and he had spent years in sacrifice to. This business which made her more curious than repulsed, more providentially alined to him than at odds.

_"__Things fell into a routine of sorts, I guess, rather quickly. I think I came as a surprise to Peter as I was quite happy to sit alone, reading or daydreaming, drafting letters to Jean Paul I never sent. I still have them, actually. In any event, it wasn't long before he thawed towards me, searching me out, not as he expected underfoot, and we found ourselves pleasantly disposed to one another over time. Like siblings at first, we shared jokes and secrets. It wasn't ideal, we would flare up occasionally in disagreement, but overall we were well matched within the household. More so than our parents, and the rows became increasingly frequent. His dad drank, and my mother, who had only indulged periodically on special occasions when my father was alive, began to drink with him. At first it was the occasional glass of wine, but as time wore on, she moved onto scotch, requiring several glasses to navigate even the most innocuous dinner conversation. With practice, she could indulge half a bottle before the tells became obvious, and almost the entire bottle when time came for me to attend Uni."_

_"__I think I began to understand the level of pain she was in, that the cruelty I'd thought the rarity of her marriage with my father was a horribly pale imitation of the cruelty inherent to having the same irretrievably stolen from you, and nothing to be done to prevent it. I couldn't bring myself to judge her the indulgence she needed. Right little enabler, I was, but I loved her, and they danced in my memory just as frequently as they did hers. We, Peter and me, began spending less time home, just wanting to avoid all of it, finding ourselves in museums, coffeehouses, pubs, anywhere really, that wasn't home. We talked about everything, there wasn't a topic in existence we didn't touch on in some measure. It was easy, and I opened to him, and he to me, and it just went that way for a while." _

_"__We knew, of course, the undercurrent was there, and occasionally I would catch a look, stricken is the best description I can offer, on either his father's or my mother's face, one or the other discovering us in those increasingly rare moments we found ourselves at home. It's not as though we were snogging, or worse. But when you can conceive of a thing, then your eyes color to suit, regardless the innocent nature of any activity, and it became the scenario most abhorred in their eyes. Though, in truth, we had yet to act on anything, and they had failed spectacularly to remain sober enough to make comment." _

_"__It felt...It became corrupted if we remained home, like a snapshot you find of a three year old running into a lake, naked, once taken as an innocent moment captured in childhood, and now a reason most likely to call services to investigate? Insidious, twisting something natural and beautiful into something lurid, shameful. This is the world we live in. Likely, it was those looks that fueled our desire to be elsewhere. Well, it was, if I'm honest, and the guilt began to eat its way into us, the emerging shame dispersing somewhat when Peter made the move to Oxford for Uni, subtly diminished, but, still, not altogether extinguished. I think shame an emotion which never goes away entirely once you've been touched by it, once you can conceive of something for which you are able to measure, or assign appropriate portions. It's age that does it. A child doesn't feel shame, hasn't the capacity to know how. We learn. But we were all once naked and running in the water. Once."_

Her eyes had drifted from his, in them the worrying hue he'd first seen when she rode next to him to identify Danny's body, the hallmark of her disengaging so subtle as to be entirely overlooked. She was drawing far away inside, whether insulating herself, or him, from the shame she'd yet to divulge for some past action, he couldn't guess, but she was drifting from him and it felt like he was experiencing one of those dreams where you find yourself falling, over and over, reaching for purchase, and everything dissolving under your fingertips.

_"__Stay with me, Ruth. Stay with me, here, now. Stay with me."_

He drew her lips to his, intent on drawing her back, usurping her sudden desire to hide from him, and perhaps for the first time in his life he understood he'd found another like himself, another who regarded the truth option in life's overall 'Truth or Dare' equation proved the more potent portion of dare in itself, the risk, if optioned, equally dangerous as any daring stunt he could suit himself to imagine. Physical scars healed, he knew, but truth, its revelation, could break a person, undermine and destroy on an emotional level and there are no sutures with which to repair that psychological gutting. His heart fell as she remained somewhat unresponsive, but he persisted, determined, and his heart formed an additional fissure to join the others she had wrought as she began to come back to him, her tongue tentative, and then warm and wet, tangling with his own.

_"__This...this is the part...it gets difficult. I...I want to say I didn't know what I was doing, that I was drunk. We were, Harry. The best lies are the ones born of truth, they teach that. The tagline should read, 'Be a Spookl: Enlist, Insist, and Never Desist. Lie To Everyone.' Its true, admit it. So, when I was talking to Angela, there were some truths. He was in love with me, Peter. Always had been. And, as I said, I loved him with all my heart. He...when he was young...he had a beautiful voice. When we were young...well, even into my second year at Oxford, he was front man in a band, played student parties, you know. They never came up with something original, just covered whatever was popular at the time. Still, he had them falling at his feet, could have had his pick, and I guess it appealed to my vanity that he wasn't inclined. He always left with me. By that time we had a very complicated version of relationship."_

_"__But it was Blackpool. The time we stayed...I guess I should...tell you...start with Blackpool. He had come home, for the weekend, and its true it was the middle of winter. Our parents were reaching the crescendo of that evening's activities, and he just walked in, grabbed me, and pushed me out the door. Didn't even say hello, he just got me into the car, flipped off the gawping neighbors, and drove away, without a glance in the rearview. I was...numb. It was as though my body and mind had reached a threshold where I just couldn't feel anything anymore. I remember my cheeks were wet, but not when I had cried. It surprised me that I was so far away, completely unaware of what my body was doing. It shouldn't have, of course. By that time, I spent a fair amount of time...away, in my head. After Peter left. I was...alone, and would just...float away." _

_"__He was brutal when drunk, Peter's father, David. And he was more drunk than sober most of the time. He could spew the cruelest things, had a real ability to pinpoint any weakness and then batter against it until you just gave up, gave in. After Peter left, he became more physical...a slap or the well placed kick. There were precious few times he directed his rage at me, but more than enough directed towards my mother, which had the affect of becoming one in the same over time. It was...cruelty for cruelty's sake. That simple. She gave back just as violently. The entire china cabinet on one memorable occasion. It's quite something to watch a gravy boat used as projectile weapon, I can assure you."_

He's tried to hide the smile, but she caught him out, brushing her hands along his cheeks, smiling through the pain of memory so acute in her eyes, still somewhat distant, still not altogether present with him.

_"__No, don't hide. It has its humorous aspects. Not then, but now, I can see the comedic side. And, I adore your smile. Its laugh or cry, isn't it? So, we drove around awhile, and to be honest I really wasn't paying attention. We ended up in Blackpool, and we did stay at a B&amp;B for almost a week. We were drunk more often than not, and I think it down to the circumstance, the idea that no one knew where we were, we were alone, and there was an attraction that had always been there, between us." _

_"__I think we stayed pissed as a means to avoid it, the attraction, and the perceived freedom that was afforded with our new environment? Foolish of us, that collaborative bit of self delusion, but...Well, we talked, and talked and, eventually, he asked me about my father. You know, what he was like, what kind of things did he like to do. He'd never asked me about him before, and I'd like to think it was because he knew it would hurt me. We never talked of his mother, either. Strangely, that initiated the breakdown, the idea that we were siblings forming the wall that kept us apart, and the more I talked about him, my father, the more the wall crumbled."_

_"__Our parents had started to refer to us as brother and sister, deliberately leaving off the 'step' descriptive, and in time, everyone began to do the same. I think it down to wanting that wall, some invisible but understood impediment, that bit of taboo ever present in their faces, and we just stopped arguing the point, Peter and me. The more we chafed, the harder they pressed, so we rather gave up that ground. Angela always called him my brother. Always. When you, on the Grid, when you clarified he was my stepbrother, it was like you had read my mind. I can't even express how much...gratitude, Harry. I was so grateful to you in that moment." _

He smiled his understanding while his heart leapt, rejoiced that despite his expanding list of personal and professional failures, betrayals, and hard truths marking those hours on the Grid most recent, he had managed to cull a single perfect rose from the dross comprising his decisions.

_"__The truth was, we weren't siblings. Not really. We were two unrelated by blood people who wanted each other. Simple as that. Except that it would never be evaluated simply, and maybe that was the accelerant, the match which set us off. It should have been Peter and me that met. I didn't, couldn't lie, not about that. It should have been us, and if we had, would we have been happier, would he be alive now, would he have stopped drinking? I'll never have the answers to those questions, Harry. But I know for a certainty, it should always have been us, and not them. Least, not as they were then."_

_"__You can imagine what happened when the walls finally dissolved entirely, and it was wonderful and tragic all at once. It was the first time he told me he loved me, looking up into my face, and I couldn't stop myself from setting aside all the damage it stood to cause. We had a proper snog, and then some. In truth, we were headed towards more. We were, both of us wanting it, needing it, the memory of my father long forgotten as his hands found their way over me. It felt so good, Harry, and I was...I was adrift, and felt as though he was helping me back home in the only way he knew how. How could either of us have ever hoped to explain that to Angela? She assumed we'd slept together, and I let her, but it wasn't true, Harry. We never did. We came close. Truth is, it was me that stopped us. That week in Blackpool. It was me."_

_"__He asked me to leave with him, and it ricocheted inside me enough to make me realize what we were on the verge of doing. I just couldn't stand the idea of what would happen if we did truly run away together, at a guess. I hadn't thought that far. I was wrapped up in the immediate, but he was thinking in terms of forever, and I just couldn't see my way through. I think I hurt him very deeply in that moment, and yet he confessed to me years later that he had thought, at the time, if he just gave me time, perhaps when we were at Uni together, we could find our way back, but it changed something. We were never quite the same after Blackpool. Or I wasn't, anyway."_

_"__I told the truth about when we returned to Angela. There were rows, our parents were quite beyond lunatic with anger at us. It did bring them together, while we were gone, they'd come together joined by worry and fear. Its funny, neither of them even drink now, so I guess it had its benefits. I'm...I need you to understand, it was never Peter that hurt me, or behaved in any way untoward or cruel. His love for me never wavered, even years later, it remained genuine and honest. I treasured it, as I treasured him. I couldn't love him the same, is all. He was a boy who became a man and knew me when, and that measure of familiarity is hard to deny affection for. Knowing that you're loved regardless the number of times you've been seen at your worst, we, that was how we loved one another."_

I will love her until my last breath, this woman. He hoped it a prayer simultaneous to fearing it a certain curse.

_"__It was my mother that did me in. To his credit, Peter did what he could to protect me, refusing to leave my side, assuming all the blame. I'll always be grateful for that. He wore that shame for the rest of his life, tried to acquire mine, too. To spare me. I carried the guilt. I think...I know, it was why he drank, why it became a problem later. I'm certain it was why I became reckless...for a time. I needed to feel the knife blade underfoot, it was reckless, and sad, and...terribly lonely." _

_"__She hit me for the first, and only time in my life the day we returned. I knew it was coming, didn't even move to avoid it, like I deserved it somehow. After, the stricken look I had become familiar with evolved into something like...contempt, revulsion, and, I guess you could say shame. She needed to believe Peter had molested me, wanted it to be rape despite both of us denying anything of the sort. It was incestuous as she interpreted it, and no amount of logic could be used to reason or calm her. I was stained after that. The tragedy of it was that it wasn't true, but reason rather takes a runner in situations like that, and so it was. He became a sexual predator and I some unwilling, shameful creature who had seduced him."_

_"__We never spoke of it, and I left home, that night. Gathered a few things, the side of my face as red as my scarf when I dared to look. Stained. He drove me to his flat in Oxford, and I stayed there until I enrolled, found a flat, you know. He smoothed the way for me, always had. Included me in everything he did, and I was so numb I didn't object or decline. Eventually, I came around, but the stain has remained. I don't think it will ever be washed clean entirely. I started dating Gary...the...you know...Clive...and the animosity between the two of them was palpable. Neither would admit to it, but it was as close to outright hatred as I had ever witnessed at the time. A difficult time, made more so because I was forced to chose between them. Give one up. And, truth is, I chose Gary, not because I didn't care, and not because we weren't well matched, but because it was easier. He didn't take it...well. He was different, then, Harry, he was. Not at all like the man you met. I hardly recognized him myself that night, if I'm honest. I know you wondered. I know you were thinking how in the world could she have...but that's, well that's something else."_

She will make you bleed.

_"__I just couldn't discard him, Peter. Not after all we had been through. And I didn't want to. I needed him, and he me, and so I...discarded Gary. I think now that I couldn't give up another person who really knew me, without any recitation or words, just knew me, the good and the bad. And he did. He knew the worst thing I had ever done. He was the only one. Then she...Angela, at TRING, and when she talked about killing my father, in the tech suite...that's when I knew he had told her, and she had fashioned it into the most exquisite weapon she could have ever hoped for against me. It gutted me, at TRING. In the tech suite, it felt like nothing more than a superficial scratch, didn't even draw blood. The intervening years had lessened the potency, but did precious little to temper my desire to hurt her in like manner. So, the cellphone, and there really isn't anything quite so effective as a confession granted posthumously, is there? You're just left to steep in it, without any recourse, waiting for the pain to stop."_

_"__He was with me. That was true. I allowed it to be interpreted exactly as she had, though that was a lie. Now that I think on it, there were precious few lies told. I know I said different...in the...hallway. But that was one of them. We never made love, Harry, and the time he spent in my bed, in my arms were times where he would show up, having not slept in sometimes as many as a few days, begging me to lay with him, hold him so he could sleep. I was where he felt safe, and I couldn't bring myself to deny him, the tragedy he had become, for me, because of me. I couldn't love him the way he needed me to, but I could provide him comfort, and I did, as many times as he needed it. I wouldn't change that even if I could. Ours was a bond that was infinite and rotten, both. So, when she accused me of killing him, it...it deadened something in me, at TRING, because the truth was, in some respects, I did. The fact that it was not intended, an unavoidable consequence drawn years earlier became rather a moot detail in the end."_

_"__I was on the Grid when the call came. They couldn't raise our parents, and some nameless plod recognized the names, eventually tracking me down. It was strange, I had felt something off a few mornings earlier. I woke up and knew something wasn't right, but everything was just as it should have been. Not at all like with Angela's surveillance. Still, there was this...itching...inside me, and I knew something was wrong. I was on edge, really apprehensive waiting for it to reveal itself. Then, that morning, when the phone rang, I knew, I knew that it had come, the answer I knew was just beyond me had arrived." _

_"__I was instructed to his flat, they didn't allow any details over the phone, and I just knew he was gone. I could feel him leave me, like someone had come along and sucked all the air out of my lungs until my ears rang trying to start them again. I told you I had an emergency, something to do with my mother, because I knew you wouldn't argue or question me, and I wouldn't have to keep track of the lies involved with telling you a number of half-truths. You'd find out soon enough anyway, so I...I lied."_

_"__She was...Angela...she broke...psychotic, and she had been sitting with him for two days. Two days, Harry. I will never in all my life forget the picture they made. He deserved better, and I hate that when I think of him now, its as he sat there, lifeless, first, and not the boy who took me under his wing, who I loved, smiling as he sang. I understood the itching then, had known it for the moment he left me, felt it, but couldn't identify it. They couldn't raise her father, and it was left to me to decide...everything. She was in good, if not precarious standing with the services, and so I signed the papers for her commitment. She became feral, Harry, and after she lashed out, marked my face and my heart, with words, I wanted her to rot inside that place. And that's our history, Harry, in all is sordid and magnificently horrid detail."_

_"__So, when you asked me to...to do what you...wanted, it was like asking me to willingly place my hand in a fire, and wait patiently, without argument, for it to come back nothing but singed bone. My mind had already done a fair portion of stoking that fire the previous evening so it felt a bit of betrayal, your decision to...it felt as though we were nothing, you and Adam and me, that we were dispensable to you in a way I had never thought to consider. Worse, that...that I was dispensable to you. The thought just about broke me, Harry. I had thought...I knew you, thought I knew better, believed we were...you and me...more. So it was a double edged sword that sunk itself into me, and I just felt my whole life fall away. I could see your lips moving, I knew what you were asking, but I had gone someplace else inside. Needed to, really, to do what you wanted."_

As she spoke, he caressed her face, her hair, her eyebrows when she closed her eyes, floating away from him, coaxing her back, and her spoken fear of finding herself dispensable to him alined itself within him to his own fear, mirroring hers, made that much more painful as he had benefit of knowing the answer, and hating himself for the knowledge, the habitual hardwiring intrinsic to him demanding sacrifice. Painfully aware of his inability to deny her intuitions, he kissed her, gently, tenderly, wanting to erase the truth falling from her lips, wanting them only to understand that he treasured her, and the sacrifices made in the future would only secure her more fully to him, rather than force them apart by design. He would make sacrifices aplenty if it meant he was allowed to keep her in the end.

He nuzzled her neck, waiting for her sigh, feeling her hands tighten against his neck and cheek, responding in kind, before risking the question burning itself through him, the answer known only to a man long since dead, a walking tragedy who had died as a boy when she had first thought to hold herself from him.

He tried not to acknowledge the jealousy slowly creeping within him, the trail of soft footfalls left behind, graceful.

_"__What did she mean, Ruth? About your father?" _

He felt her start beneath him, accompanied by a ragged intake of breath as her lips drew away from his, and he moved his leg to fall across, and around her, drawing her closer, cleaving her to him by virtue of comparative size, his arms bent at the elbow, next to her shoulders, his stomach covering her by half, and his hands securing her face to look at him. He leaned towards her, and she closed her eyes against him, her mouth a thin line. But he was good at this, hadn't she said? As if to prove the theory, he kissed each eyelid, over and again, varying his pressure and technique, until they fluttered open, and he could see he had won in their depths.

Deep in the shadows of his heart, the jealously flamed that much brighter as the hardwired remit sleeping within him began to hum with consciousness, alive and thirsting, despite him.

_"__Ruth...Tell me about your father."_

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**A/N: Please advance post haste to the next chapter as it is the continuation meant to be included here, but which, sadly, became too long to be considered wise to post in full. Thanks for reading and reviewing! **


	19. Chap19: The Stained Feather II

**A/N: This follows immediately from the previous chapter as it became too long to remain as is. All disclaimers stand, and some "M" rated themes are present. Again, thanks to those of you who have reviewed, it is most appreciated. **

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_"__Ruth...Tell me about your father."_

_"__He was...He was a good man. Its the part you want...I'll not blame you if you turn away, Harry. When you...know. I need you to know that, before I...Okay. My father. He was vibrant, and curious. Very cerebral and we were very much alike. I learned everything I know about emotions, people, from him. He was very sick, and towards the end, the cancer seemed to accelerate, it just ate him whole, like it sensed the feast would all come to an end quickly and it just wanted over with. The impatient tumor. That's what he called it, for me, to prepare me, I guess. The last few months were the worst of it. He was in so much pain, and left to our front room, in this mechanized bed. People came and went, medical people, but there was nothing left to be done but wait." _

_"__I think he truly died, the light of him, that spark extinguished when he lost the ability to speak. It preceded his physical death by about a month, maybe two, and the light just sort of left his eyes when he realized it. He loved to communicate, words, he loved words, and what a person could do with them? Always encouraged me to be kind with them as they could be the most damaging weapons available. He was right, of course, though I'd little ability to understand it then, as a child. I think it's why I loved, well love, languages. It made it easy for me to learn and adopt as many as I have. It made Angela's accusations even more insidious, that. That she never knew is a small victory, I suppose."_

_"__We had developed a means of communicating between us, a Morse code involving blinking, some pantomime, and he still had use of his hands, I loved the feeling when we would trace letters into each others palms, that I could still touch him, talk to him. There were times, more frequent towards the end, when he couldn't sleep, and he would write all his thoughts down. A journal. He made me promise never to look at it, and I did. I was willing to promise anything to make him happy, to remain at his side. We made a game of it. He liked games, too, so I come by it honestly. He would start blinking, and we would time how long it took me to decipher the book he wanted me to read from, the drink he'd like. I read to him for hours, and he just watched me, like he was memorizing me. Maybe he was." _

_"__We were so much alike, he and I. It felt as though we could communicate without speaking, always had. Drove mother crazy, but it was something we shared, just us two, and he would just smile at her when she would chafe, wrap his arms around her and say, 'My lovely Elizabeth, I do love you so,' and she would let it lay. He always called her Elizabeth. He was the only one who ever did, and even at that age I understood there was some reason. I like to think it was the way her full name felt on his tongue because he would draw it out, slowly, with this look on his face, and she would smile as he did it. The habit predated me, but its effect remained potent between them. They loved each other, and they never thought to hide the depth from anyone. They never did."_

_"__Mother was gone one afternoon, the market or some such, and we both knew she'd be awhile. I knew instantly that day had formed somehow different as he didn't want me to read to him, or make up some elaborate story to entertain him. He had his journal out...It was leather bound, had a leather button affixed to the front, and a strap you wound around to close it. Do you know the kind? Hand made. It was worn, and soft. Still is. I have it. I sometimes smell it, and I'm reminded of him, like he's there, with me." _

_"__Its wonderfully worn and so smooth its almost shiny. It still smells of him, even after all these years. That smell is so much a part of my memories of him, the words he'd written inside...All that time spent not sleeping he had been writing things he wanted me to know. The first time he kissed my mother, the day he first held me in his arms. Why they chose my name. And more, so much...Stories from when he was a boy, how he felt when mother had rung him when I fell out of the tree, the fear that always sat just beneath the surface that I would come to harm. That fear, Harry, for your children, it was the same for him, and I think he would have liked you, and you him. He wrote then what he would tell me on my wedding day, wanting me to know I was meant to be treasured and loved. They were his last words to me, our very last conversation in the language he loved best. I would willingly walk through fire to retrieve it. Its the only possession, well, one of two, I would suffer a great deal of pain to keep safe. It sits next to your Ovid, Harry. I keep a picture inside of him. Of us both." _

_"__That afternoon, it was open in front of him, and I remember hesitating at the door, and he looked up and smiled at me, and there was something about his face that looked so much like he had before...I thought...I thought maybe he would be fine. He beckoned me closer, motioning for me to sit, and he just handed me the journal. I just kept looking at him, as if I dared to look away, even for a second, the shine in his eyes would disappear. Amazing how much power you think you have as a child. That you could stop the course of illness simply by refusing to look away."_

_"__Eventually, I looked down, began to read. I thought that's what he wanted, for me to read his journal to him. But I'd misinterpreted and realized, as I was reciting the words aloud, he had written down a number of specific medicines, listing them in amounts. It was like I understood, but didn't, or couldn't, the idea of what he was suggesting I do was so staggeringly wrong I failed to comprehend it absolutely. I don't know, the difference measured between theory and fact being the difference between innocence and fallen?" _

_"__But he meant it, and I knew it for fact when I saw the numbers for the lock which rested against the cabinet in his office. He was one of precious few doctors willing to see people at home, so there was a room, on the first floor. And a locked cabinet. It was a date. The combination. Or, numbers easily slotted into a date. I've wondered my whole life since that day what they signified, but mother would never answer me. I still look at that page. I run my finger down the words thinking, I don't know, one day I'll understand what was in his mind and heart? And so..."_

_"__He was in so much pain, Harry. Late at night, towards the ends, I would hear him, even though he tried to be quiet. I would sneak down the stairs and curl up just outside the door, where he couldn't see me. I just wanted him to know I was there, but I knew he would be more upset if he did. He never wanted me to see how much pain...Every morning, my mother would find me asleep in the hall. She had taken to sleeping on the couch, spent most of her nights up with him, trying to calm and sooth him. I don't think she ever told him, and she never asked that I stop. She had retreated into her own heart by then, and I'm not entirely sure she was conscious of anything outside of her own pain. We were, the two of us, walking on eggshells, and just trying not to step on something that would bring whatever tenuous hold we had crashing down around us, mother and I." _

_"__I'd recognized some of the drugs listed, knew their effects. He had always been very open about what he did professionally, and imparting knowledge, to him, was as vital as words, conversations, emotions. I got the pills, Harry. I did. I ground them into a fine powder the way he had shown me. I added a bit of honey to cut the bitter, and the milk to help it emulsify so that he wouldn't choke on the chalk of it. He had done the same for an elderly woman on our street who had broken her hip, and gagged when she had to swallow a whole pill." _

_"__Frightening, the things you observe when a child that would never occur to one's parents to prevent. Like, the idea that children are blind to the truths present around them, the things adults wouldn't deliberately chose to expose them to formed a barrier of some kind? That their belief in their continuing innocence was enough to make it fact? Children see everything, and can ferret a secret before an adult can even begin to contemplate the means by which to hide it. Children are mirrors. I set the kettle and, oddly, decided that this was an occasion for china. I wasn't even there, Harry. I wasn't there, and yet I chose a china cup and saucer to poison my father."_

_"__I had left my mind. No, that's not right...it was...We had a game, he and I. A variation on 'I Spy," ironically enough. We would go out somewhere and find a spot to people watch. Did it all the time, at least once a week. Anyway, he would say something like, 'Tell me about the man in the red sweater, Bird,' and the game would begin. I would fabricate these long drawn out stories about these people that we watched. They were elaborate and detailed, sad or fanciful, owing to whatever mood I might be in. Over time they became less imaginary and more accurate, and we would watch as what I had thought to imagine would sometimes happen." _

_"__He used to say, 'Always look underneath the skin, Ruth. Under the surface is where the person is, who they are, what they are capable of; Its in the eyes and hidden underneath, my little bird.' That was what he called me. His name for me. He said I was half magpie because I would find things as we walked, just discards from life, and look at them like treasures. I have them in an old wooden cheese box. So, maybe three things treasured enough to walk through fire for, yes? Anyway, I'd fallen from a tree trying to look into a nest, broke my arm in two places. He wrote about it in his journal, how he ran because traffic had been bad, some accident, and he had never felt that level of fear, but knew he had been preparing himself for from the moment I was born. I was really proud of that break. I guess you could say, in a strangely formative way, he had always been preparing me to be a spook. Had always known, somehow. That game is what makes me good at what I do, and down to him, if I'm honest."_

_"__So, in the kitchen, that day, it was like that, while I was making the mixture he wanted. In my head, I was telling myself it was just a story, and we were having tea somewhere, and these people weren't us, but two other people, and if I looked hard enough I would see...under the surface...that it was love, an act of devotion and love what the girl was doing. It was easy, then, to distance myself because it wasn't me, but a girl who looked a lot like me. But not Bird, not a little bird." _

_"__They call that a meta-moment now days, but then it was just me watching a shadow of myself from somewhere in the distance. I poured the tea into the cup, and watched as the milk wound its way through. I remember thinking it so peaceful, that image, like when smoke curls into the air, and just moves so effortlessly until it becomes a part of it. I used to watch smoke like clouds, trying to identify the shape it took. I think it was why I started smoking at Uni. I would just exhale, and watch the smoke with my head back, imagining the shapes." _

_"__I entered the room, where he was, and he looked at me and smiled. I felt my heart stop and I was certain that I'd have no further use of it after that day. I intended to do it, Harry. I had tamped down every voice in my head, had hidden within myself so as not to alter course. I saw it then, as I got closer, saw the split second of fear in his eyes...I collapsed, inside, I couldn't move my legs, and my hands began to shake...When I looked underneath, as he had taught me, I saw the smile hadn't reached his eyes. I saw him try to hide it, but he had taught me too well, and he couldn't hide beneath from me."_

_"__I think he was afraid for me, in the end, knowing he would no longer be there to fix what he'd hope wouldn't be broken with his request. If I could see my way to do it. He knew it would break me, too much for an eleven year old, too much...oh, God. I just wanted to make him better, but I...I failed. I turned the cup over, dumping the contents on the rug. If I close my eyes right now I can still see the wet circle, and the globule of white, misshapen and still chalky sitting in the center. I still see it. And I can hear the sounds he was making, trying to comfort me without being able to speak." _

_"__There were fat tears rolling down the side of his face, into the fuzz of what was left of his hair. I remember watching them, mesmerized by their passage, but primarily by the fact that he cried. I'd never seen him cry, and it was down to me. He kept reaching for me, and I remember thinking, absurdly, 'I'll need to clean that before mother returns.' He nearly fell from his bed trying to reach me. I almost didn't get there in time. He took my hand...He took my hand and placed it...against his...heart. Blinking, that he loved me, that he was sorry. He asked me to forgive him. In my palm. his finger tracing the words. How...how could I not? He went very quickly after that, maybe two weeks to the day? It was quiet, in his sleep. I never saw his eyes shine again."_

_"__That's what I told Peter, in Blackpool, and in an effort to make me feel...something, love, forgiveness, we chose something which became even worse than death for us both. An albatross which required feeding, like a cancer in itself. I don't regret it, but I do feel shame. How can there be both, Harry? I believe, to this day, I had a part in my father's death. I did, in the preparation and failure both. It hastened his end, his own shame working on him, feeding the feast. I was a part of it, I carry a portion of blame, so it seemed only natural to carry another portion for Peter's. Ironic, but I'm rather poisonous, when all is said and done. I kill the people who dare to love me in some way. Slowly, like a virus sitting dormant awaiting a catalyst. I didn't kill them both with my bare hands, that's true enough, but when you shake it out, it only uncovers my degree of culpability the more you examine it. She was vicious and cruel in what she said. But she had been right. Angela."_

_"__More's the pity, that the entire conversation, all that you asked of me was for nothing. She hadn't even armed the damned thing, and I wrecked her for want of causing pain, wanting her to hurt like she had hurt me, and Peter, wanting her to suffocate as she had suffocated everything beautiful about him. It was for nothing. It wasn't the lies, Harry. It was the wanting that had me arguing with you. The fucking relish I took in causing another person to break apart before my eyes, and feeling nothing beyond wanting to bloody smile."_

He had been afraid of this, if he were honest with himself. Had worried the longer she meditated the result she would eventually come to this feeling of futility and emptiness. The turning in on oneself when the adrenaline evaporates within. Proper little spook. He simply hadn't been able to gage how long in the making, what length of time he would be granted before he'd be forced to address it, forced to placate and fashion fictions to make her feel better. All designed, selfishly, to keep her with him.

How could she possibly have thought that her darkest secret would repulse him to the extent he couldn't see past it? Truth was, he loved her more for it, her ever present anguish and guilt forming the motivation for all she had hoped to surmount and accomplish since, so acutely characteristic, mirroring his own. She was his twin, in more ways than she'd ever thought to imagine, and he would never, regardless of what happened between now and in the future, regardless if this night proved to be a magical one-off, or if they remained cleaved together and breathing ever after, he could not imagine a circumstance wherein he would willingly part from her, excepting death.

And like that, the fictions he'd not thought to consider poured from him without a thought, the words spoken, to his surprise, more truth than fabrication to his ears.

_"__Ruth. My Ruth. It wasn't empty, what you had to do. Never that. Don't you see? Regardless the motivations, regardless the mechanism at work, Angela was as manipulated as you, in the end. And what you couldn't do for Peter, or your father, don't you see...you did for her? Maybe you would never have intended it, but you helped her...You helped her in the only way anyone left could help her. She wanted answers, Ruth. And you provided them. That was what she wanted...needed before she...died. She could have killed Adam if she had wanted. She had the rifle pointed at me, Ruth. I saw her. A clear shot, a clearer one couldn't have been provided. But she didn't pull the trigger, Ruth. And she only wounded Adam. She didn't want to kill any of us, not really. She had the means, and didn't." _

Pulling her upright, he forced his legs into a cross legged position he'd earlier assumed quite beyond him, bringing her with him, forcing her to do the same, knees touching, his hands squeezing her upper arms, shaking her briefly to stop her retreat from him.

_"__No, don't turn away from me. Listen to me. Now, Ruth. She knew you would find the missing report. She knew that. And, for what its worth, I think she wanted us to find it, wanted us to stop it. It was her way to alert us to something bigger. We all suspect something working behind the curtains, and she...she warned us. Don't you see? She was only a part of a greater whole, and that because she wanted to know, finally, she wanted the truth. From you. She never once turned her back on the services, she used them as they used her, and got what she wanted. Its classic Angela Wells, really."_

He watched as the tears of shame and guilt manifested, glistening before proving too much, bursting the dam of her eyes, each falling slowly as his eyes traced their descent, dropping to the insides of her exposed knees, and rolling further down to the blanket. He moved to wipe the trails they left from her cheeks, tilting his head and smiling into them, mesmerized as they changed color again, the blue green vibrant against the red forming, and he thought himself drowning.

_"__She loved you, Ruth. I believe that. How could she not? Jo said she confessed she could have loved you like a sister, too. Her words, Ruth. I think she did, and I think the entire history between you three was a terrible tragedy. But it happened, and she died...complete, Ruth. She died complete. It's sadly the most any of us can hope for. And that's down to you. Just you, and the wonderfully complex, paradoxical beauty of you. I'll not hear another word about it being empty or useless. Not another word, my Ruth."_

Her face collapsed in on itself then, as he watched, memorizing the way it came on slowly, an orchestral movement of pain and relief, the crescendo of her sobs reverberating through his chest as he wrapped himself around her again, and lay them down, his shirt dampening as she allowed herself to let go of all that was within her wanting to scream.

He held her tightly to him. Would have done for the rest of his life. Wanted nothing more than to have his ears full of the sound of her soft hiccups as she crested and began to calm, his lips imparting gentle kisses across her crown, inhaling the scent of her deeply, forming the memory he would entertain when she was gone and he alone. He knew it a certainty, then. As he knew that he killed all that was beautiful in his life as surely as the sun would rise in a few hours time. The worst that she had done, the worst that she could conceive was an act of love offered a loving parent, and he'd not that measure of kindness in his voluminous history of despicable acts.

Regardless, he would tell her. Had to, it was the single act of decency he could hope for now.

_"__Ruth? I need to tell you something. About your father."_

Perhaps, he thought quietly, it would be enough to warm him in the years that lay already cruelly defined spanning before him.

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	20. Ch20 The Scorpion's Venom

**A/N: Bit of a delay for which I am sorry, and have little excuse. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. AU reminder remains firmly in place, and as always, I hope you enjoy.**

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"Once they tried to steal my heart,

Beat it right outta my head.

But baby they didn't know that I was born dead

I am the iceman,

Fightin' for the right to live."

_-Iceman, Bruce Springsteen_

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"__Ruth? I need to tell you something. About your father."_

It took a moment, little more than a split second in length, before she understood what he had said aloud. It wasn't any particular movement or sound which gave her away, but rather a combination of both. That, and a subtle stiffening of her body in his arms, and though he yearned to believe he had imagined it, he felt the heat leave her, the parts of their bodies still connected chilled as she separated from him by centimeters, and his skin reached along his body by instinct to reclaim her.

She leaned up, resting on her elbow, the length of her body pulling from him, and the damp spots she'd left on his soiled shirt caught the early morning breeze, haphazard spots stuck to the surface of his skin, their collective chill seeping deeper into him, forming around and enveloping his pounding heart.

_"__You...About my father? I...Harry, I don't understand-"_

_"__No. Of course, you wouldn't. That would be more than I could justifiably hope for. Your understanding."_

_"__Harry?"_

She had sat up next to him, and he felt her knees against his side, his mind concentrating on the feeling, the reestablished physical contact which would either fuel him his confession, or undermine him entirely. Turning his head to regard her, he saw in her face a mixture of worry and apprehension. Yet, there, just underneath, his expertise far surpassing hers at a game she had learned as a child only just revealed to him, lay the quiet evidence of curiosity and interest she was, even as he watched, trying to hide.

Just as her father could not hide beneath, neither could she from him, and he was left resisting the urge to again gather her to him, coax her from the distance, an exercise repeated throughout her own confessional, and he left believing it futile in the face of what he had yet to reveal. He drew himself into a sitting position, leaning his back against the ridge behind them, and felt the absence of her knees, the physical comfort her touch afforded him, evaporate in the space left between them, gaping.

His mind, with her confession, had fashioned a box for her, one in which he placed the memory of a stained carpet and a heinous request for a time later in which he would examine the details, turning each in his mind, wondering the damage wrought, the terrible betrayal by a mother of a daughter, the depth of scars left behind. In that moment, he found himself yearning to confront Elizabeth, detail for her the damage her actions had left on this partial replica of herself, demanding to know it an act of outright selfishness, or simply one self hate and loathing. _Perhaps both, _his conscious answered_, And who are you to judge? _

The thought, traveling the distance within him, was both genuine and undermining at once. A revelation of sorts, intrinsically selfish, and he was left understanding his need to confront Elizabeth was as much about himself, his own failures of his children, the scars his own betrayals have wrought in them, as any delusional effort to ignore and deny responsibility for his deliberate choices. Were he to act as his shadow demanded, he imagined her denials would mirror his own, very likely voiced exactly as would his own, including much the same verbiage he himself would choose, proving a mirror image of self hate and loathing, both predictable and hollow.

And yet, he recognized she had never judged her mother. Neither Elizabeth or himself, and he wondered if the difference in temperament was the legacy passed from Daniel Evershed? Was it his kindness and devotion to words and language which informed her, proved that nurtured internal impediment fortifying her ability to avoid indulging baser needs, denying any opportunity to allow blame and vindictiveness to rule her and flourish? It seemed, to him, as he held her in his eyes, that had either Jane or himself bothered to consider anything beyond their own immediate furies, perhaps their own children would have evolved less jaded, hard and distant, and she appeared even more a miracle to him in the comparison.

He studiously ignored the alinement his mind had allowed in placing Ruth, his sudden and cherished lover, along side a place inside him next to his estranged children, the image forming both disturbing and unsettling to him for reasons he'd quite prefer to meditate in the quiet solitude of his home, and not as he sat now, resisting the burning need to touch her, if only with the barest tips of his fingertips. Still the urge to touch her was, in likewise aspects, the same as that he habitually felt for his children, the need to communicate that despite his compromised actions, they were a part of him he would not relinquish or sacrifice, regardless the distance.

_"__There's so much...I...Am required to keep secrets, Ruth. And, much as I may want to reveal everything, I'm charged with carrying those burdens until I'm quite dead and buried. There are certain...aspects to my specific responsibilities that, quite honestly, I hope never are revealed, not while I still breathe. I've kept them all a number of years. So many years, Ruth, you've know idea the things still alive, breathing in my head. It was my inability to share anything of what I did with Jane that did us in. The marriage. Ultimately. I'm certain you've heard the gossip, and while some has been fantastically exaggerated, for the most part, there's more truth to the bulk than fabrication. My...ummm, constant philandering was a symptom, really. The roots of us were poisoned long before I first stepped out. And then, well it had been easy, I'm ashamed to admit, but it had been. And once that line had been crossed, I guess I just kept looking for the next to try to contain me. And, then, I stepped over that, too."_

She had taken his left hand in hers, turning it over and tracing patterns on his palm, holding it in her lap, and it was as though, inside him, she was pulling threads, releasing knots within him which would otherwise prevent him from speaking, but gradually loosened, the ends falling away, triggering something inside him, and he wanted to cut himself open and pour all of it from him, experience the forgiveness she bestowed on even those who had harmed her deeply.

_"__They warned me. At GCHQ. When word got around that I was rumored to be seconded to Five. It was nothing at first. But then, the stories came more frequent. You're regarded as quite the prolific cocksmith, Harry. There wasn't a female there who didn't envy...have something to add to established lore. I ignored what was said. Well, most of it, anyway. I had chosen to relegate it to gossip. Intriguing gossip, I have to admit, but hardly representative of reality. There was one...story, something about the daughter of an Italian Diplomat, and her, well, there were several theories, but the most popular was female bodyguard? I'll confess, that particular bit of lore did peak my interest. You were terribly limber at one time, weren't you? You smile, but that story, no matter how many times I heard it, seemed more accurate simply because the details offered, rarely, if ever, altered from the original telling." _

_"__I think its important to point out that I was in my early thirties at the time. A good deal has changed in the intervening years, including my, as I mentioned earlier, ability to be limber. I was...that particular circumstance involved an op we'd really no business being involved in from the outset. My...actions with the...two women was...a poor attempt to illustrate why."_

_"__You engaged in sexual congress with a diplomat's daughter and her bodyguard to make a statement of dissatisfaction in the workplace? That's what you're telling me? With a straight face, your expecting me to buy that?"_

Clearly she wasn't anymore inclined to accept his rationalization presently anymore than his Section Chief at the time, though the gradual smirk evolving on her face lent itself to the idea he was not entirely bound for the dog house. His response, true to form, was to grin sheepishly and shrug his shoulders as if to communicate something similar to, _Can I help it if women find me irresistible? _While that response had worked in the past, he knew that her single raised eyebrow suggested she was not as easily swayed. Which left him the solitary option of admitting the truth, and then finessing his way back into her graces by any means available to him.

_"__If I'm honest, Ruth, I'd prefer to not remember it at all. But as you ask, it does seem a bit more geared towards self interest than an example of hostile workplace. See? I've grown since then. Does it help at all that I'm willing to admit you're right to be skeptical?" _

_"__Not in the least, though I do appreciate your pointing it out in case I might of missed it."_

_"__I was a boy, Ruth. Nothing but a boy playing at grown man. And, I might have had a bit of an impulse control problem. I'll admit that much. Still, it did peak your interest. You said. A, what was it, cocksmith? Yes, an intriguing cocksmith. Your words."_

_"__Yes, very intriguing, Harry. So, at the first opportunity, I...read your file. It was...enlightening, and it didn't take me long before I found the reprimand, and I thought, well we hadn't met, and then you came to interview me, and I was...I walked in, and there you were, sitting there calm as you please. Nobody had warned me you were doing the interview, and I couldn't stop looking at your eyes. You must have noticed. I thought it obvious I was practically shaking with nervousness, and my mind was running the images associated with everything I had heard about you...It was...There was a pull, even then, Harry. Potent as any cocktail or drug. You were, God, you were electric to me, taking up the entire room, and your voice just melted over me."_

_"__Chalk it up to weakness for bad boys, the dark side, and, yes...maybe a bit of intriguing cocksmithery, but I knew, even then, there was something. Mostly, I wanted to know you, even though on some unexplainable level I felt as though I already did. Honestly, I was sorry when the interview ended, like when you go on a really fantastic date, and then, before you know it, its time to part? I thought I had blown it. You had this smile, but not a smile. Also, not really a smirk, per say. It was...secret in some way, like you knew something I didn't, and I remember thinking, 'He thinks I'm just a silly girl,' and it just destroyed me." _

_"__I couldn't know then that smile is what you do when you've already considered your options and made your choice. You do, you know. Very sexy, that smile, intensely masculine, almost wickedly, but still appealing. Even as early as then, inside me, there was something triggered that reached towards you, and I was...I was easy pickings for Amanda Roke. It's not an excuse, or justification by any means, but I wanted to be near you, and so I agreed to anything they wanted."_

_"__I had already chosen, Ruth. And...well, I can tell you now, I had sidelined Tom for that interview. I never interview potential candidates, never have done, so you can imagine his reaction. Fortunate for me he was dating, at that time I think, the doctor, Vickie something, and was only half a mind to pay too much attention to my motivations in that regard. I shudder to think what the masses would say if they knew how much a distraction our personal urges can become, charged as we are to ensure they continue to blissfully muck up their own personal lives without risk of terrorist death and destruction city wide. It had been longer than I cared to think about that my own personal life infringed on my professional, but there it is, the unvarnished truth."_

With his free hand, he brushed the hair that had fallen behind her ear, drawing his fingers along her jaw line, capturing her chin and forcing her to look him in the eye. Adopting his most effective smolder from his coterie, he determined it vital she leave the image of his youthful self bent on sexual satisfaction, and replace it with the vision of the man sat before her, the man who knew her taste, and wanted to know more.

_"__Honestly, Ruth, I never thought you a silly girl. I would have preferred it to have been a possibility, if you really must know. It would have been infinitely easier had you been an intelligently gifted, but predominately frivolous girl biding her time until Mr. Right came along. I would have found it a simplicity to dismiss you as such. Inside of five minutes, I knew that would never be the case, that you, your mind and intellect, were meant for MI5, and about ten minutes following that revelation, I realized, however ridiculous it seemed, that you, the woman, were meant...You were meant for me." _

_"__So, that wicked smile you saw was me, first, knowing I would second you at the first opportunity to Five, and, second, a reflection of my trying to wrap my head around the fact that I wanted you, but in a way I had not wanted another human being in a very long, torturous time. Even then. I did. It was powerful, and I'll tell you now, I had to pull in a few favors to keep you from Oliver Mace. You were slated for Six, Ruth. Mace had already staked claim with the Home Office and DG. You didn't know that? Amanda Roke, and her agenda, fit quite nicely with that bit of subterfuge."_

_"__You...You knew? All along?"_

_"__Yes, I knew, from the start. But I thought I could talk you on side, just the same. I manipulated Amanda Roke, at a distance of course, and she manipulated you. I was rather disheartened at how long it took Tom to twig to that circumstance, but more so because it reflected how at cross purposes he was, his attention, you'll remember, had strayed dangerously off piste. It was fortunate that Ms. Roke was in over her head, playing with the sharks. Short of your misstep, I would have had to fabricate some other circumstance where your...betrayal would be discovered. What?"_

_"__Its...I'm just...I shouldn't be, of course, but your level of contentment with duplicity is more than slightly unnerving. Your conscience is quite a terrifyingly malleable substance, Harry."_

_"__Ruth, I...That's true enough. I hesitate to say, but its what makes me good at what I do...professionally. And maybe I allowed myself to carry it a bit too far where you were concerned because...because my personal motivations had begun to override my professional concerns. You had the potential to excel in the services, so it became easy to tell myself it was in the interests of Queen and Country that I manipulate...I don't regret it, just so you know. Not for a second." _

She didn't reply, and the subtle shifting of her body let him know he had triggered something within her he had hoped to avoid, leaving her on guard, and him with no ready means to soothe her but for a confession which would likely bring his entire house of cards down around his ears, rather than draw her closer to him. He was reminded again of Jane, and her accusations of being manipulated by half truths, falling from his lips effortlessly then, second nature becoming primary the more he spoke, the truth proving more an insurmountable obstacle he'd no desire to overcome. The impression was one of Ruth pulling from him mirroring Jane's, but to an alarmingly increased degree of discomfort, and his intuition began to flutter deep in his abdomen a message of caution and impending loss.

_"__I need to...there's something...Make me a promise, Yes? I need to tell you something, and I need you to hear all of it before you say anything. I know you will need to examine it, turn it around, and I'm hoping that when you're done...distilling it...you'll see my side, the reasons. Will you make me that promise, Ruth?" _

_"__Yes...I'll listen, without a word. But, I...I'll make no promises beyond that, Harry. Please don't ask that of me. Agreed?"_

_"__Agreed." _

He stopped her fingers playing at his palm, enclosing his hand around hers, placing them on his upper thigh, his thumb gently brushing the top of her hand, a gesture intended to quiet and soothe her as much as capture that strength needed and afforded by physical contact.

_"__This was quite a while ago, Ruth. I was...well, I was young, active in the field, and I imagine it coincided to my being regarded the maverick initially. Oh, I've heard. I know more than anyone thinks regarding my reputation. I was reckless, dangerous to fellow agents and assets in equal measure. I thought myself untouchable, and to a certain extent, the belief was validated by those around me, those numerous occasions where I cheated certain death, being blown with little avenue for escape. I've been stabbed, shot, beaten, tortured, burned, and each incident breathes within me still, the details acutely clear in memory, the marks on my body a daily reminder should I ever be foolish enough to forget."_

_"__I'm not a...good man. You would be well advised to find another, someone honorable and kind, more like you. You deserve more. I've killed people, Ruth. I've taken lives with my bare hands in the field, and by directive as Section Head. Numerous lives, Ruth. I've watched as the life bled from their eyes, the spark extinguished, and called it duty, justifiable. Years later, this was before you came, there was something Tom once said during an interrogation that cut me to the core, and it planted itself in me. Fertile ground for a festering seed, that, and I'll never forget it. He said the taking of life to save lives was about the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. It had upset Danny, as well. It took me some time to reconcile it, and even in that I couldn't count myself successful, even now." _

_"__I'm more than half persuaded Danny never managed to either. Because, when you strip away all the pretty words, the rationalizations and justifications, the lies you swallow to sleep or continue forward, what he said encapsulated the basic construct we've operated under since the security services were conceived. We kill so as not to kill, and the paradox lives with us every day. You can't reconcile a paradox, can you? You can only lie and fabricate...I shouldn't wonder the skill each of us has in that regard."_

_"__There was a splinter group, Irish combatants, wreaking havoc, and Angela and I were dispatched to infiltrate, she the main faction of INLA, and me closer to home. I, well both of us, really, as a means to maintain cover were forced to stand by and watch as the destruction mounted, agents we knew were killed, murdered, tortured. It...can become self destructive, cause doubts, make you question the wisdom of your remit, vulnerable on the front line, every moment an opportunity to be discovered as much as able to identify the targeted Intel. You operate in ways you'd never imagined yourself capable, and once you can conceive of it, like the shame you had talked about, you'll never regard yourself clean again, no matter what you tell yourself lying in the dark. The heightened state of anxiety, that extreme level of apprehension, unexpressed, can work on you, your mind turning in on itself, and it becomes enough that you can remember the remit after while, the light you fixate on internally as a means of survival."_

_"__When I told you my greatest fear was that one of you would not return, I wasn't exaggerating. I have lost agents, and they are a collective wound that will never heal. I imagine your belief that I am made of love, my gift, is what makes it infinitely harder for me to turn away, brush it off in the same way Mace and Siviter have proven capable time and again. I'm certain its why I take greater risks, or did, then." _

_"__There was an agent, before Tom. His name was...is Lucas North. The best I've ever seen, would have had my position if things had been...He was taken, in the field. Russia, Cold War, a time when the enemy was identifiable and certain. He's alive. That's the worst of it. He remains alive, and I'm left waiting for an agreeable trade. Its an insidious card game we play, awaiting the ace high, the bluffs measured as a life hangs in the balance. You can't imagine the level of futility, knowing even before I offer a trade it will be refused, and Lucas will continue to reside in whatever Hell they've relegated him to. It's indescribable...the weight of it, the responsibility."_

_"__My point is that once you've been in the field, once you've looked into Conrad's darkness, you don't come back entirely. And frequency simply enhances the feeling of separation, the idea that normalcy is a fabrication your eyes can see past, and everything becomes rather dulled and disingenuous in the aftermath. So fearing that one of you won't come back is as bad as finding that you have, but altered in a way that can't be undone. Paradoxes inside paradoxes."_

_"__It was that level of knowledge, of operating beneath the surface for so many years, that changed me. Gradual as it was, that change began to eat at my marriage to Jane. The result, of course, was an oddly discomforted feeling of disregard when I found myself at home. My family had become that thing which I was charged to protect, but not something I felt either a part of, or understood to any reliable extent. They had, the three of them, created a life in my absence, and the feeling of being an outsider was excruciating present. So, I was drawn ever more frequently by operations which would ensure my continued absence. It was in those environments I felt alive, a part of something I understood, knew where I fit is the best way to describe it, I guess." _

_"__I had been charged to...get close to the wife of our presumed target. We had determined she was appropriately pliable, and so they sent me in to...infiltrate the group...and seduce her by any means necessary. Her name was Anna. I only tell you because I don't want you to...It was an op, but I still remember her name, is all. She wasn't chaff to me. I mean, no, its true, I didn't love her, but she wasn't just a nameless victim either. I'm not explaining it well, but ultimately, I didn't want to cause her any more harm than necessary, she was important enough for at least that measure of kindness."_

_"__On its face, it was, the op, an elaborate honey trap, and it was successful. I was successful in pulling it off. That's what we all thought, at the time. We got word too late that Angela had been forced to give up a name, and it was mine. I knew that she had been forced to divulge the Intel, she was deeper than I, and her positioning was the greater prize in the overall operation. It secured her infiltration, and was necessary, in the end. And I knew the risks going in, knew that of the two, I was the one deemed more dispensable. If I'm honest, I'm more than certain that was the appeal. I'll not give you the details of what happened next. Suffice to say I was tortured within an inch of my life before they found me. Anna was executed. Its what I remember most clearly about the torture inflicted. They shot her in the head before they ever lay a finger on me, and of all the physical scars I wear from those three days, that execution is the most powerful of mementos I carry."_

_"__They didn't think I'd make it. They told me that afterwards, and it became yet another instance where I cheated a justly deserved death. I was becoming a legend in that regard, had heard the gossip, the stories bandied about. I was vain, and it was appealing in all the ways most self serving. It validated my place, secured me a Queen's man, rather than my wife's, in any event."_

_"__So, as I said, they'd considered me a dead man walking, and I remember a warehouse with crates, a hastily secured safe house. There wasn't a part of my body that wasn't either broken or bleeding, and I was roiling in so much pain the thought of dying became something I found myself courting internally, a pleasant alternative in a field of bad options. He was brought in. I don't know where they found him, or who managed it, but he saved my life, Ruth. Your father. He saved my life that day."_

He felt the jerk of her hand, the pull which wanted to separate hers from his, and he tightened his grip, knowing this was when her continued touch was necessary, as much to make her understand as force the words from his lips.

_"__No. There's more, so I'll remind you of your promise, now, and ask that you keep it. He was very gentle, your father. To say I was a mess would be kind, but he identified each injury, evaluating primary from secondary, efficient as you please, and set to work. There was no anesthesia or the like, and I remember through the pain he quietly talked to me, told me each step, each action, his voice was...lulling, calming, and despite myself I trusted him almost instantly. He didn't hide was the first thing that struck me, and I remember being rather surprised that, under the sudden circumstances he found himself in, he remained completely calm, in control, without any need of outward artifice or mask. I was left to conclude this wasn't his first rodeo, so you can imagine my shock to find that, in fact, it had been. The first of many interactions."_

_"__There were several more occasions subsequent where I found myself being tended to by your father, the injuries varied in extremes, but his temperament remained true to the first, and I found myself believing that if he were there, I would survive whatever damage had been inflicted. I found out later that my superiors would communicate with him a vague level of on call status when I was placed into the field. I guess you could say they had gleaned my level of confidence in the man, so, while obviously manipulative, they used him to keep me entering the fray willingly. We're all just pawns to be shuffled around in the end."_

_"__We developed a rapport, a conversation of sorts, where he would tell me about his life, his normal, enviable life, and I would concentrate on breathing through the pain listening to him. His voice was almost melodic, and the subjects varied, but I remember them all. It was where I first heard about you, Ruth. He called you his bird, his little bird, and I can imagine that page in his journal reflects exactly what he told me about your broken arm. It got so I referred to you as the little bird, asking that he tell me of your latest adventure." _

_"__You should know that even through the haze of whatever drug he'd administered, his absolute delight in you was palpable to me, to anyone standing there. He was very proud of you, Ruth. You need to know that. It seems to me not such a stretch to guess your Tell Me game originated with him, as I found myself requesting he tell me all manner of things regarding you, and your mother, your lives together, and the means by which he navigated both worlds when I had failed so miserably to manage the same. It always came to that, me asking and he teaching, so your suggestion that he considered imparting knowledge vital was not exactly a surprise to me." _

_"__He concluded it a measure of freedom denied those of us in the services. A tragedy to him, but he seemed to understand the necessity, and his position as rather an after the fact man. That's what he called himself, and he confessed it a benefit not afforded everyone. He had a true sense of duty, it emanated from him, and yet he balanced it with a level of kindness and compassion I coveted over time."_

_"__I think the first time I really believed I would die coincided with the first time another doctor appeared in Daniel's place. I'll confess I went rather cold, and I was insufferable to the poor bloke that stitched me up. I never knew he had come down sick, your father. They had chosen to keep it from me. I can't tell you which circumstance angered me more, the fact that they kept it from me, or the fact that they'd assumed it so debilitating they'd little option beyond not telling me."_

_"__I didn't know when he died, Ruth. They had kept that from me, as well. But I found out soon enough. I trolled the Intel available, read the notice; Survived by Elizabeth Margaret Evershed, spouse, and Ruth Elizabeth Evershed, daughter. I can still see it. I was reminded of Gollum, you know, from Tolkien? I felt like I had become him, as I read the names, your name, that precious I wanted to know more about, that tricksy precious little bird. It was then I realized how much you had sunk into my consciousness. Well, not you, you, but the idea of you and your father representing all manner of things I had failed with my own children, that ease of affection that he displayed had become something I envied, that familiarity with who you were, the mechanics of bonding with someone who is a physical part of you? I'm ashamed now, but it was a ring I wanted, a precious I wanted for myself." _

Predicting her reaction, he placed his free hand underneath hers, joining his fingers together around her hand, pulling them closer, every instinct within him prepared to spring and tighten as she no doubt would fight to separate from him completely with his impending words.

_"__I began to keep tabs on you. It was infrequent enough in the beginning. But...over time, it wasn't enough to just troll Intel. Eventually I...best just to say it...I found myself in Oxford. It was only twice, Ruth, I swear it. But, even that...I...there's very little I can-"_

_"__You surveilled me? At Uni? YOU WATCHED ME!" _

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**A/N: The Scorpion's Venom II coming in short order****…;)**


	21. CH21: The Scorpion's Venom II

**A/N: "M" rated theme warning applies. Turn back now if it isn't your thing. Reviews, as always, delight me! **

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

"Well, if you're tired,

And feelin' so lonely.

You wake up at night,

thinking that only,

If you had somebody.

I'll be somebody,

Somebody to love."

-Somebody to Love, Valerie June

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_"__You surveilled me? At Uni? YOU WATCHED ME!" _

As expected, she jolted and moved, quicker than he'd assumed her capable, nearly losing her hand in the process, and he counter balanced her desire to physically distance herself by tightening his grip, leaning forward, using his strength to force her submission, forcing their hands to his chest, her face only inches from his, her eyes wide with shock, fear, and some mixture of angered incomprehension.

_"__Ruth, please, I'm trying-"_

_"__To what? Trying to what, exactly? That's a fair step beyond duplicity, Harry! You all but stalked me, tell me you understand that much, at least? Please, tell me you understand that much."_

_"__Of course I do! Bloody hell, Ruth, do you think I actually want to confess this to you? NOW? After...Christ, Ruth I'd sooner tear my eyes out than to see you look at me like that!"_

_"__Like what? Like a person who made love to a man whose just admitted stalking her fifteen years earlier? Who did so because of some clandestine association with her bloody father? Who became some freakish obsession, or, no, even worse, some object, a possession to be captured and manipulated, a flesh and blood, breathing 'precious' tangled up in your failures and need for absolution? Like that, Harry?"_

She spat the words at him, eyes blazing in the darkness, the word precious hissed from between clenched teeth, and despite her right to react in such a way, his frustration overtopped itself, and he allowed his inherent malice, his sense of self loathing to color his voice, thrusting his answer back in her face, matching her vehemence with his own. For a moment, one fleeting moment, he wondered if he were deliberately undermining himself by telling her, and the malice within him thrust into overdrive with a requisite ferocious measure of undeniable fact despite him.

_"__Yes! Exactly like that, Ruth! It wasn't like that! Quit pulling away and listen to me, damn it!" _

Releasing her hand, he grabbed her around her upper arms, his fingers sinking deeply into the soft flesh he knew would result in bruised, discolored spots blooming to match and mark her. His shadow acting as hardwired, violently manipulative, his need for her to stay put and listen surmounting his ability to remain rational, remain Henry James Pearce, and not the shell of himself forcing his way, mutated and grasping.

_"__Whatever happens now, I need you to know it wasn't like that! I...I owed it to your father, don't you see? He saved my life, Ruth! I was compelled to watch over you for that reason alone. No, it doesn't make sense that I felt that towards you, when there were so many others I didn't bother to afford a second thought! And, yes, damn it, I'll admit a fair portion was because you held a fascination in me! God help me, I was caught up in you, but because I wanted to make sure you were...safe, Ruth! I wanted to do that for...I owed that to your father!"_

She had pulled herself violently from him, scurrying beyond his reach, and he could feel the doors within her slamming shut against him, both he and his shadow, reverberating in his chest, and the cards began their tumble, slowly wafting, a lazy progress in his mind's eye as they gathered about him, and she, arms enfolding herself, palpating the marks he knew were already manifesting tender.

_"__It wasn't untoward, Ruth, regardless how it sounds. And I hear how it sounds, believe me, I do. But you were okay, I could see that. Maybe a bit withdrawn to a well trained eye, but still incandescent with health and vitality, even at a distance. You were sitting with someone, side by side. I know now it was Peter, and he had just said something that made you laugh, and I knew you were okay, that your father had done his job well, had instilled in you that fundamental affection that allowed you to navigate the world and still remain entranced by it, the wonder and beauty of it?" _

_"__I might as well confess now that you were, in that moment, beautiful to me, just as you were to anyone happening to pass by. Just as you were to Peter. So, yeah, self serving, but also a well meaning act of...Fine, misappropriated devotion to a man I felt, even then, years later, obligated to. Did it feel wrong at the time? You need me to say it? Right, the answer is no, it felt right, Ruth! What felt wrong, Ruth, was stopping myself after the second time, so if you're going to keep looking at me like that, understand that if nothing else!"_

He began to rub his forehead, a placating and self soothing gesture he'd carried with him from childhood, the method by which he organized his furious thoughts into something manageable and comprehensive in times of distress. An obvious tell very few, excepting those closest to him, knew or understood which eventually would have him wrapping his arms around his chest as if holding everything wanting to spill from him secreted inside. He neither wanted to complete the ritual, nor was he capable of stopping the unconscious gathering across his chest, holding himself as he reluctantly divulged additional details quite beyond his ability to stop himself.

_"__No sense in denying the rest, I guess. You'll have all of it. I can see that, now. The second time I found myself in Oxford proved to be the last time I sought you out, or allowed myself to get that close in proximity, is more accurate. The circumstances were the same, I had an asset that needed tempering. You had cut off all your hair, Ruth. That fantastic dark cascade of yours was gone, and replaced by awkward angles mirrored in your physical presence. I was...I was shocked at the turn...you had taken, and a not so subtle urge to discover why you had...disfigured yourself, why you had lost your shine. You had done something...something my mother had warned me about as a boy, something Jane had done herself, and the idea that you would travel the same path as Jane was unspeakable to me, the idea left me...it left me despondent."_

_"__When I was a boy, God, maybe nine or ten, my mother told me that when a woman finds no alternative means to express, herself, her grief, she will cut her hair off. She confessed to have done that exact thing when something, or someone, she had loved very much was lost to her. I couldn't tell you if it was lost love, or something else, but her only recourse of expression was a terrible act of disfigurement undertaken to express what couldn't be spoken. And Jane, before the depression had taken hold of her, in the beginning stages, I had found her...in our bathroom...and her hair was all around her. I...It was the first time I truly hated her, Ruth. Imagine that for a second. She was silently screaming and all I could do was hate her for her pain and weakness, her need! Her physical presence had become, in my mind, a testament to my failures as a husband, as a father, just another judgement noted, another reason to not bother to try. It was inexcusable, my behavior. It was, I know that now. If I could...I was too young to see past all the hate, Ruth, and the mere memory of that time in my life turns my fucking stomach."_

_"__And there you were, hair shorn, hurt in some manner while I was watching, while I was charged to ensure your safety. I overloaded, all of it rushing at me, and, yes, I was unprepared to manage it. I couldn't...I resolved then to never lay eyes on you again. That day, Ruth, and I never did. Not until that bloody interview. That feeling of being poisonous, I understand that more than I can say, and it honestly breaks my heart a little that you believe it the truth of yourself. But I understand why, Ruth. I do, and if you'd allow me, I would spend the rest of my days trying to take that away, make you understand what a rare and miraculous human being you are. It sounds pathetic, even to my ears, but I can't stand the idea that you think yourself anything other than deserving of companionship, worthy of a love which isn't transient, or subject to extraneous circumstances, something which can only live in your memory, but not experienced eternally. I could never want that for you."_

_"__After that day, I was left to help you the only way I knew how. It was all manner of subterfuge, of course, but I rationalized it easily enough. Your records indicated a talent with languages, puzzles, and I thought a career at GCHQ would allow you to excel and still remain unblemished by the sordid characteristics inherent to the services. And, yes, before you say it, having you at GCHQ allowed for easier surveillance of you. There was that. I admit it, freely, I do. But primary, Ruth, was the idea that you would remain safe, using your talents to great effect, and possibly granted that rare opportunity to find someone like yourself, who would accept you, and make you happy. I wanted...I wanted you to be loved, Ruth, but I also wanted you to be happy, so I thought...GCHQ." _

_"__So, it was me. I was the one who led them to you. You might as well know all of it. I brought you to their attention, a word here into the right ear, a nudge there, and they snapped you up, as I knew they would. In all honesty, I was content to let that rest there. Told myself I was done. But, you applied for secondment, and I realized fairly quickly I had not washed myself entirely clean of you, my feelings of responsibility for you, at least. And here's the punchline; We never would have met had you not done that! And before you fixate on that, and you can stare daggers at me all you want, Ruth, I am categorically, emphatically, most vehemently not suggesting that any of it was your fault! Got that? Not your fault. I'm not blaming, here, I'm simply pointing out a basic, unadulterated fact you appear more than willing to ignore right now."_

_"__I had gotten word that Mace had been sniffing around, and I just about exploded when word came that you had been interviewed and slated to join Vauxhall. Had Jools still been there, and I can't say for a certainty, mind you, but I might have acted differently. But Mace was acting interim, and I knew him to be, without saying too much beyond what is appropriate, dangerously myopic as relates his personal ends. I know, its ironic, but he's much more dangerous that I, Ruth. You are well aware of his reputation, but I've had the unfortunate opportunity to view first hand the methods by which he achieves his goals. There is precious little he won't do, best to leave it at that."_

_"__Given your desire to move beyond GCHQ, it was easy to rationalize my actions. I called in some favors, twisted a few arms, forced an interview with you, and then used Amanda Roke as the branch by which to beat my way towards preventing you from finding yourself across the river. I spent more than a few juicy pieces of Intel to ensure it, and I don't regret their loss. Can't imagine a time when I will, if only because it led us to here, this moment, and I find I wouldn't trade it even if you find yourself needing to walk away from me, Ruth. Oliver Mace would have destroyed you. I couldn't allow that. And he may still, in a week, a month, who fucking knows, the man knows no boundaries, and the list of personal vendettas is growing every god damned day. Now that you know the depth of my...and you should know, as duplicitous as it may have been, it rather scratches the surface of my arsenal, palatable in the face of worse, moldering and rotten. I've managed worse, Ruth. This? Its not even in the top one hundred I'd have to say."_

He watched her then, painfully aware she was wound tight, too tight to risk any movement on his part without believing she would violently spring, a would be Jack-in-the-Box wound to the point of breaking, just this side of exploding. He could almost hear the musical notes as the arm tuned, the fun house calliope a cacophony in his head. In a predictably selfish way, he rather hoped she'd give in to the need to come apart, needed the destruction as a means to arm himself, harden himself, remind himself why he had been so long in finding a home, the resulting frustration and disillusion used to fortify himself in the wake of her eventual decision to discard him.

_She will make you bleed._

As if reading his thoughts, she whispered the name, _Gary_, and at first he thought he had spoken out loud. That in his concentration to gird himself against the inevitable, he had forgotten to keep that long ago conversation to himself, another bit of her history secreted from her, held within himself, and divulged unwillingly.

_"__Gary. I had cut my hair after Gary. When I chose Peter. It was difficult...that time. I felt trapped in a way. I couldn't stand my reflection...in the mirror. Before, there were circumstances which...I could bury them, or reconcile them. But Gary...with Gary, it was a conscious choice, what I did. And my face...in the mirror. It became...his desperation to fix it, determine a way we could stay together, it was bleak and grasping, and I reacted cruelly...said things that would hurt him, leave him with little option outside the one he fought against. I couldn't stand the sight of myself, what I had done, after a time, and I...one morning...I took the shears and cut off my hair. It was to breathe, I think. So that I could breathe. Maybe your mother...I couldn't breathe, is all, and grief takes all forms I've come to find. Do you...do you wish you had asked her? Your mother? Do you regret not asking why?"_

_"__Every day. Actually, no, not exactly that, but I do miss her everyday. I regret the loss of her every day. It wasn't until Jane that I was sorry I never asked, though I fear what I might have done if she were traveling a path similar in any way to Jane's. I'll never know, and it remains something that...stings, the not knowing a particularly suited torture for me. She left behind a blinding hole, a void of unanswered questions and two sons too young to understand why. I can't honestly say which is worse, Ruth, being sent away to grieve alone as you were, or remaining present and subject to a father who would not suffer weakness or grieving of any sort? Both circumstances cut deeply, I'm afraid."_

_"__And this...All this was...I'm to understand it as some display of, what...Obligation to my father? Is that it?"_

_"__Christ, no! Obligation? My God, Ruth...I would never have you believe that. I know I said that I felt an obligation, that's true enough. But Ruth, all of it, every moment, was genuine, as genuine as I'm capable of being. I was, from the start, in love with the idea of you and your father, the image of that relationship so different from my own, the girl who was adored by her father, and given opportunity to know it. I'd not allowed that for Catherine, though the truth is I adored her in no less capacity as your father adored you. The difference was he showed it, had that freedom, took advantage because he could, he knew how, and I had little understanding of how to navigate the same. I felt obligated to the child left behind, the adored replica he had cherished and treasured as much as I felt obligated to him. So yes, but also, in some measure, no." _

_"__Now...now, Ruth, I've a growing affection for the woman the child became which is not the same thing. There is no obligation for me to do so, only that belief that I must because...Christ, because I can't do otherwise. I've tried. So, if you want to call it obligation, then fine, call it that. But the only obligation I'm willing to admit to is that one associated to ensuring your safety, which I'll gladly undertake, and that hope that you will be happy, which I would try to ensure, and regard most welcome."_

_"__Yes, its convoluted and messy, not the stuff of fairy tales, I'll grant you, but you wanted me too, Ruth. You did, and you still do! I want to make you happy, and you are with me. You are, Ruth! Despite the circumstances and the means by which we got here, to this moment, you are happy with me. Never mind my actions, you had no idea, and yet you felt something during that interview, enough to look at my file, enough to surveil me in return, and you could have turned away then, made your decision and calculated your judgements; Yet you are here, and you smell of me and I of you, and I defy you to look at me now and tell me you still don't want me, deny that you feel safe with me. Go on, try. Look me in the eye and deny me, if you can."_

_"__Harry, it can't be real, any of it! Don't you see? It's all so calculated, compromised from the start. You manipulated your end from the start! How can you-"_

_"__Oh, sod that, Ruth! Look me in the eye and tell me it won't break you in two to part from me now! I'd sooner walk into the Thames over there and never return than to hear it, but if you can...If you can, I'll cherish this a precious memory, and never speak of it again. I swear to you now, I'll leave you to your future unblemished. It will tear me up, but I've had a lifetime of overcoming the worst of myself, and the consequences. Before you answer, know this, I've very little ability to manipulate the feelings of others, Ruth. Actions are one thing, but the emotional attachments made between two people are beyond my wheelhouse. I never once manipulated how you felt about me. I never planted that seed. That was you, Ruth. That was you all along. And you are here, with me, now, because you wanted to be. The details are insignificant...Knowing them doesn't change your desire to be here with me other than skewing perspective a bit. And is the result that horrible to accept? Tell me-"_

_"__Stop, Harry! I...You're doing it, you're talking me on side, asking that I just disregard what you've told me? Christ, but you are bloody gifted at that. You almost have me believing it my idea in the first place, to disregard. I said almost! Still, the magnitude Harry? Have you any idea what you've done to me? You're a spook first, Harry! Always! Not the man I...I can't think straight, and your...God, your eyes, Harry, if I let myself I could drown. I have to...I need to think...I need-"_

_"__You need to answer me, Ruth. Before anything else. Don't think, just answer. Tell me, do you still want to be here, with me?"_

_"__Yes, I'm...yes, I do."_

_"__Tell me, do you still feel safe with me, here, now?"_

_"__Yes, Harry."_

_"__Last one, maybe the only one that really matters, Ruth. Tell me, do you still want me?"_

She didn't answer right away, and the wait had the unnerving effect of needles on his skin, pricking him as he waited. He watched as she worried her lip, fingers plucking at the hem of her skirt, still crumpled around her, one thigh exposed and excruciatingly pale to his eyes. He wanted to put his hands on her, each finger stretching, elongating with the urge, twitching to force the answer from her by squeezing if need be, again, his innate hardwiring demanding he force his way, become the thing she had reason to fear. She appeared in no rush, meditating her answer, making him wait, refusing to make eye contact and he took her inability as a good sign, contrary as it was. Despite his earlier vow to leave her be if she desired, he couldn't deny himself the urge to manipulate her further with an additional confession designed to leave her little choice but to acknowledge him, the truth of him, the man, and not the shadow, the spook she saw him as.

_"__Did you know that I had to leave the Grid when word came...That night...At the safe house, when Six tried to assassinate Gary? Well, its true, I did. I honestly couldn't have given two paltry shits about Gary, if he lived or died, but you? Just the words from Malcolm's mouth were enough to set my ears ringing. There's a problem, a shots fired call reported to the plods. The address matches the safe house, Harry. I remember it verbatim. He said it as if it was a question, the idea that something perfectly predictable would happen having escaped him, making him question the reality of it, too. My first thought was of you, Ruth. I had just spoken with you, had requested that you call when you arrived. And you had, you were safe, Zaf was there, and I couldn't wrap my head around what Malcolm was then telling me. I kept thinking I should have kept you with me, taken you to mine, kept you from the middle of it."_

_"__We didn't know anything beyond that, not until Adam arrived, and I can tell you that apart from the birth of my children, they were the longest minutes of my life. It was twenty minutes, and it felt a lifetime inside. When word came that you were alive, shaken, but alive, I...Malcolm had to repeat himself...I couldn't get the idea that I might never see your smile...It was my worst fear realized, Ruth. Someone I cared about, someone who meant something to me coming to harm because of their proximity to me? I had been that way with Jane, and the kids, but to react that way for you...I knew I had crossed a line inside myself I couldn't take back."_

_"__Malcolm had twigged by that point. I know you'll be angry...I know that. I'm sorry, that's my fault, and I'm sorry. I did manage to leave, escape really, for the roof before anyone else picked up on it. Once there...once there, Ruth, I couldn't help it, I vomited, until all I could do was dry heave, on my knees, and I thought if I could just see you...And then I understood why you needed to see Danny because how else could you believe anything? How else could you attempt to get past it, move on? So I just wanted to see you, so I could move again. But I knew, even then, if I was to move on, it would be towards you, not away, and it made me fear for you. It did. The cost of becoming something meaningful to me. When you returned, it was all I could do not to wrap you in my arms. God knows I wanted to, and I have little understanding how I managed not to, but I managed that much."_

_"__I'm telling you this so that you know, regardless your answer, I will never stop wanting you to be safe, nor stop fearing the affection I have for you, and the consequences it may cause. Its ingrained in me now, and there's nothing I can do about that. I wasn't always this way, but I am now, and your answer will have little affect on that. And...something else." _

She looked at him then, her face the picture of words unspoken, _No more, please, no more,_ and he rather sympathized her current hesitation to hear anything further. He'd held back precious little in his confession, whether to test her, or inform her he couldn't decide, but were she to turn from him, he could not count himself unaccountable in the result. That he feared she would was a twisting snake in his stomach, stretching and refolding on itself, preparing to swallow him whole. For the second time on this day he heard the voice inside him whisper, _In for a penny_...

_"__Later, when you told Gary never to contact you again, do you remember? Well, you left, but I stayed behind. He told me something, something I thought I had kept well hidden, but...hadn't. It...that part...he confessed it in his nature to see the unseen, hear the unspoken, and that he had watched us. Together. Then, he told me you would make me bleed. I let him have the last word, partly because I had effectively stripped him of everything he wanted, but mostly because I knew well enough by that time whatever had been between you was dead in the past. And I think he did too, and, quite likely, why he said it." _

_"__Strangely, it had the opposite of desired effect on me. I had thought I couldn't need you more, but with that warning, that feeling was enhanced, the idea that you had the power to hurt me was oddly appealing because it suggested I could be hurt in that way, after so much time, I could be touched deeply, and harmed. I want you to know that." _

_"__When I told you I felt alive, Ruth, it was only half true. The truth is, with you, I feel not just alive, but a desire to be alive, which is a very different thing, but no less true. I've never risked that, in my history, not even with Jane, risked wanting to be alive, and the vulnerability it creates. But I want it, as I want you. Still."_

_"__You're certain Malcolm knows? There's no...doubt?"_

He was a bit taken aback at her question, at first. After a moment, he understood she was taking the revelations in order, her mind picking at each as they were divulged, and it occurred to him then he'd even more to hide regarding that subject than he cared to admit. If there were a God, and he though couldn't believe his mind had taken such an abhorrent digression, he found he would much prefer she advance quickly onto the subject of Gary Hicks, rather than continue meditating the presence of Malcolm in their inner sanctum of two. Questions as to the origins of that he could well do without despite the fact his mind immediately began conjuring images of Ruth's face as she turned from him during the EERE exercise leaving him to his quarantined solitude, then to her furious accusation of cowardice in the aftermath of Fortescue, finally becoming the quietly deadened, _You bastard_ as he revealed his collusion to she and her harried colleagues, the hurt and relief both clear on her pale, drawn face.

She had been watching him carefully, easing herself closer as he meditated his memories, the pictures rolling in his mind's eye, and he could feel the boxes within himself beginning to close, the shadow within stretching itself outward, and electrical current traveling the length of him, and his eyes locked with hers, still guarded, still distant, her face the picture of a press conference worth of questions, and he left vulnerable to her first volley. Nodding affirmatively in answer, he allowed himself to become very still, an animal whose scent had been gaged and identified as vulnerable.

_"__You...You didn't feel alive with Jane?"_

_"__No. I felt...obligated, ironically. Better I should say adrift. I felt adrift. Apart from both she and the children. They became...Eventually, they became the picture in my head when we were on an op, or more, I don't know, the amalgam of what we were tasked to protect? Over time, as an active agent, we, well all of us, understood that what we were tasked to protect could be destroyed, regardless. You developed internal methods by which to distance yourself, prepare yourself for any eventuality, including fatalities, as a coping mechanism. It was a matter of course. You learned not to care in the extreme, you taught yourself to reveal nothing of your inner vulnerabilities. Jane, and the children, were my greatest vulnerability, yet I could not reveal anything of myself to them in return. My children remain a terrible risk, though they'd likely laugh at the thought." _

_"__If I'm entirely honest, Ruth, I would do it differently if given the chance. I would have married Jane, that's true enough, I did love her. But, I...would not have had children, and that would likely have ended the marriage anyway. Jane was born to be a mother in so many ways, and I was born to excel in a field in which children, loved ones, compromises ability, access. We would have ended badly regardless, is what I'm trying to say, the circumstances may alter with hindsight, but we were not meant to last even as long as we did. I loved her, but not in the manner she needed. I see that now, years later. I loved her the way one loves an idea, an image, and for me that image was normalcy, children being an ingredient to that combination in my head, and me playing a role within, dictated by that image, but at odds with everything I understood to be genuine." _

_"__I'm explaining it badly, I know, but I loved her, at one time, just not enough. If I had loved her more, I would not have been capable of setting her aside as easily, relegating her and the children to something...other...there to be protected, but not cherished and nurtured. When one is young, wrapped in hubris and overreaching self confidence, you can believe a thing admirable, tell yourself you're acting in everyone's best interests. The truth is you're simply constructing lies to swallow, over and again, until you're so full of them the reality of who you are is blindingly obvious, and by that time, you can do more harm than good to adjust. And that belief is still just part of the larger lie. You tell yourself you have time enough to fix it. I agreed to the divorce because I wanted them safe, which still left them at risk, and Jane deserved some happiness after the damage I caused her. I wanted distance, and I got it. More than. Now, years later, I've more distance than I care to measure. Such is the consequence of service to the Crown."_

_"__I think that a bit self serving, Harry. Simplistic, at best. They are your children, not something...other. Even Adam and Fiona managed to provide Wes with some measure of normalcy. Together, their risk was exponentially greater-"_

_"__Did they? Did they really, Ruth? The boy didn't even know his mother's given name. Is that what normal looks like in your estimation? I've no doubt there was love, but it was anything but normal, Ruth. And she's...gone. They spun the wheel, and lost, Ruth. They lost. You know what that feels like, as do I." _

_"__We make decisions, choose a path, and die just the same, either way. Emotionally, I died a long time ago as far as my children are concerned. Catherine herself said as much. I keep them safe, as much as can be done, but I'm dead to them just the same. Your father? He was...alive, Ruth. He wasn't playing at happy families, he didn't adopt some role or artifice. One day I was Harry, the next Giles Farmer, the next, James Henry, but I was never the loving and doting father they needed, and as these others, I fucked around on my wife who never stood a chance from the beginning. When you're a fabricated shell, Ruth, you can do anything, you become the devil driving as easily as the unintended victim simultaneously. Once done, it can't be undone."_

_"__And my father, he...He showed you this?"_

_"__Yes. He was a shining example, and me the tarnished impostor, in so many words. I thought...I thought, for a brief time, I could fix it, but the damage was too great. So, you...well, you became that opportunity, and I wanted to keep you safe as much as my own family. The difference is that they no longer desired the effort, and in their refusals, the fact that you were unaware made it easy, or easier, to exercise the urge to trespass that ground where you allow yourself to be vulnerable enough to care, openly. I know that sounds...ridiculous, but I cared for the first time in a long time, however covertly to you, openly for me."_

_"__As Harry? As Henry James Pearce?"_

_"__Yes, Ruth. No artifice. No legend, or role. As me, always. Just me."_

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**A/N: What's up with the "Traffic Stats?" As I can't see anyone is reading, owing to some malfunction with site (I hope), reviews are most welcomed if only to let me know I'm not left alone on this ride. I look, of course I do. I'll own it. ****_Venom III_****, coming in short order, as these confessions do take a bit of time, and do tend towards extended in length. :)**


	22. CH22: The Scorpion's Venom III

**"M" themes very much in effect. You've been warned. Enjoy, and please leave a review if you have the time.**

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"Wanna hypnotize you,

With the sweetest sweet.

Cause you know your love,

Makes me complete.

In the darkest hours,

Of the brightest days,

I wanna be beside you

Each step of the way."

-_Wanna Be On Your Mind, Valerie June_

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_"__Yes, Ruth. No artifice. No legend, or role. As me, always. Just me."_

She had moved to within inches of him, and he could smell her skin, imagined the heat of it under his fingers, knowing he was moments away from being flayed beyond recognition, the feeling of weakness settling in his stomach, winding around the snake curled within. Taking his hand in hers, he watched the play of her features, the furrow of her brow, worrying her bottom lip, her restless fingertips brushing across the surface of his hand, tracing his fingers to the tips, working a pattern he didn't understand, tilting her head slightly as she smiled carefully, her eyes drawn to the water beyond them.

_"__You didn't listen to him. Gary."_

It was a statement, spoken softly, on a whisper, her lips curled around it in a delicate smile, apprehension uncoiling smoothly within him as she captured his eyes, and he could do nothing but watch her mouth moving.

_"__Warnings have little effect on me outside of wanting more, My Ruth."_

Placing her hand against his heart, he drew her to him, his eyes fixated on her mouth, wanting to kiss her again, wanting that part of him that was her to become fused within him, wanting the evening to never end, knowing they would leave soon, their moments magically out of time, theirs alone in the hourglass.

Her eyes roamed his face, searching for the tells, fettering out the truths spoken, measured against his physical presence, and he meditated the symmetry between he and Angela Wells, her need to belong to someone so overpowering her reason was subjugated and compromised, mirroring his own. He marveled at his willingness to be examined so closely, his innate remit hardwired to conceal at rest, and he imagined her eyes as a physical connection between them as she searched, felt their caress as though she were already burrowed deep inside him, stroking him from within.

He had loved her before she existed, before he had first heard of her, this little bird, and he loved her now beyond the confines of reality, and physics, and the rules binding together the known universe of science and theory, and for the first time in his sorry existence he thought he would sacrifice Queen and Country, duty and honor, if he could be granted her in the exchange. If the choice had to be made, he would chose her, as he would never have chosen Jane, or the children, or so many others lost to him now.

Unable to curb the urge, incapable of stopping himself, he extracted his hand from hers, drawing her face to his, placing his lips against hers, her smile against his lips a physical balm, softening against him, her fingertips dancing the sides of his face, and they spun together, joined as he rolled her back and underneath him, his hands cushioning her head, his lips glancing against hers, and he was shattered by the vision they made in his mind's eye, as the tears rolled from her eyes and he moved to capture them on his lips, her lips becoming hungry, her teeth drawing his mouth deeper inside her own, the urgency searing through him, each wanting to swallow the other whole, her whispered, _Yes, I do want you, _a verbal dagger scoring his heart.

Regardless the urgency, he understood this exchange as wholly different from the previous, this physical connection, their lips exploring the other, a conversation without words, verging dangerously close to idolatry, a rite of simultaneous submission and worship. Each caress, each kiss deeper than the last, the layers of themselves lain open beneath a darkened sky, their whispered words decorating the tether that had always joined them, and he thought it quite easy to allow himself to let go the chains of control and restraint, knowing this, her, for a place of safety, knowing himself to have always been Henry James Pearce, and no other, with her, this single woman, luminescent beneath him.

_"__We need to go, Ruth. Sun up soon, and we've a bit of travel ahead."_

_"__I want to stay. With you. Always."_

_"__Much as the idea appeals, I think we'll be missed in short order. Wouldn't do the have the whole of Five discover us here, I should think."_

He chuckled as her face adopted a stricken look, the idea that they would be searched for, their absence raising an alarm apparently the furthest circumstance from her mind, and he inwardly relished the idea that he should have that effect on her, that her keen reason would prove an inadequate weapon against what they had so recently become. Still, the surveillance present in her home made allowing her to enter the least likely circumstance he was willing to entertain, and the idea to take her back to his bloomed naturally as the solution most desired, though somewhat cautiously, owing her penchant for privacy which might prove a more formidable obstacle should he openly suggest it.

Kissing the tip of her nose, he rolled himself to the side, hearing his hip bone crack, and his knee pop as he gathered himself slowly into a standing position, and concluded immediately that despite the delicious circumstances, he would be inclined to make love to her in the future in the comfort of his bed. Or, hers. He gazed down at her, her eyes now closed, the stricken look she had adopted morphing, as he watched, into one of pained acceptance, grasping her hand as she lifted her arm, a silent request for him to assist her, and he was rather saddened to find all he wanted to do was lay back down with her and forget everything and everyone save themselves, and to bloody hell with his cracking bones.

He drew her up and against him, her body molded to his, each perfectly suited to the other, his arms instinctually wrapped around her, her mouth nestled next to his pulse, his lips against the silk of her hair, delving the last moments available to them, this miraculous union both had wanted, and feared, and needed, desperation driving them to wring every available second afforded them, clinging to one another and the freedom to remain exposed without immediate consequence.

_"__We have to go, Ruth. I'm sorry, but we must."_

She kissed his pulse, his cheek, then placed her hands on either side of his face, drawing him to her, the kiss full of longing and regret, bittersweet mixed with desire, and he gave in to her, deepening it, his tongue cresting and invading, coiling with hers as she went limp against him, her head dropping back and he was reminded of the Klimt painting _Die Umarmung,_ depicting lovers cocooned together, the colors kaleidoscopic and rich, the details narrating the depths of adoration and submersion within their union.

He imagined them in perfect harmony to that masterpiece, their embrace mirroring the patterned details that had always drawn him, the dark haired woman almost entirely obscured by the breadth of her lover, enveloped within his arms and cloak. It was, to him, better than _The Kiss_ in so many ways he'd not yet understood, but now could identify, as a lover's embrace alined each together, heart to heart, the mechanism by which each continued to draw breath joined in an embrace which demanded they continue, defining the measure by which they became one before joining lips, and bodies. It was soul joined to soul and a more intimate portrayal of love he could not name.

In time, he would tell her this, reveal that contemplative side of himself in turns, allow her to sift through the collection of Klimt's work he'd collected over the years, some framed throughout his home depicting women in the midst of ecstasy, their nude forms drawn, pornographic in Klimt's time, awe inspiring and humbling to him in his own. She was his dark haired lover, she was his erotica, her body his haven, and her face in ecstasy his daily wish and desire. He wanted to draw her down, divest her of every stitch of clothing, examine every inch of her with his fingers, his tongue, watch as she pulsed and bucked around him, listen as she begged him to fuck her, begged him to stop and never stop, and it was Herculean in nature the effort to deny himself in that moment, feeling her against him, knowing she would allow him anything he desired if only to remain here with her until sunrise danced across them, lighting her shadows, revealing her naked beauty again as it glistened in the rays.

They stumbled drunk with desire and need, he would guess, while gathering the remnants of their impromptu liaison, moving in the direction of the car, stopping to wrap themselves around one another, kissing and fondling, each time more urgent than the one previous, and he wondered the viability of driving in his current state of heightened awareness and arousal. Wondered, too, how he would suffer the drive without stopping to envelope her again, and again, sat idle the side of a deserted road marking the distance between there and home, the inches defining the kilometers between kissing her and tasting the warm liquid of her, his face nestled against her thigh, his eyes hypnotized, half lidded as she moistened for him, his name a sigh breathed to float above them in the confines of his bedroom.

Worse still, he wondered the means by which he would be able to work along side her, this day, and the next, and every one granted thereafter without revealing all to anyone present? How he would refrain from touching her, even briefly? How he would not see the body he has now glimpsed, not hear the words she had now spoken, avoid the pitfall of their tether proving a noose perfectly suited to their mutual undoing? His innate need for control had begun, with this recent collection of concerns, to simmer to life, his unconscious mind grasping for the ease of moments before, while his conscious mind demanded he begin to plot the course, manipulate their future together as easily as if it were following a recipe, some previously determined, infinitely manageable series of measurements available to everyone capable of reading, and possessing a kitchen.

Most pressing of his immediate concerns, however, was his need to be reassured that she neither regretted their physical awakening, nor believed it in any way short lived, or obligatory in nature. He was rubbish at this, he knew, skirting genuine emotions, searching for the ease of role and habit. Give him a legend and he became the person needed, did what was required, smooth as silk, softly, softly drawing the noose until completed. Give him a legend, and he was insurmountable. Hand him a genuine emotion, and he was as helpless as an infant, mewling for comfort and security.

He glanced towards her, smiling as he observed her, and was reminded of their age difference in the ease with which she contorted herself completely on the passenger seat, curled into a ball, her eyes clear, and soft, as she gazed at him in return. She blinked once, slowly, a shy smile lifting the corner of her mouth, her eyes accepting that he needed to say something, but was hesitant to act on the impulse, reading him easily.

_"__You said...Earlier, you said you'll not be satisfied with a memory. Do you remember?"_

_"__I do."_

_"__Do you still...You understand I...I can't...I won't live with only the memory, Ruth. I can't go back, now. I won't. Even after everything I've...told you. It was never...this was not obligation. I...Christ, I'm rubbish at this! I need you, is what I'm trying to say. So...there. I've said it. I need you, Ruth. If I'd have known we would...If I'd any idea that...I'd imagined so many ways to tell you, so many circumstances where I would just say what was in my heart, the proper words, the specific images and appropriate metaphors. So many hours spent. And, here it is, the moment I've rehearsed in my mind and it seems I've lost all ability to quote chapter and verse the reasons we should be together, and I'll confess a completely illogical fear that you're moments from telling me you're attending a dance with my best friend, and simultaneously content that you alone know exactly the reference. I can't describe how perilous and terribly wonderful it all seems to me. I can only confess that I cannot imagine a life without you. I don't want a life without you."_

Reaching across, she held out her hand, wiggling her fingers until he placed his on top, their fingers weaving together as she closed hers around his.

_"__When I was a girl, very young, there was a game we would play sometimes during recess. Each of us would take turns balling our hand into a fist, and another classmate would wrap their hands around, squeezing that ball even tighter, until you could feel your nails digging in, but not so deeply as to draw blood, just the barest mark. We would stay like that, all tensed and scrunched up, for, oh, maybe four or five minutes. When time was up, we would turn our hands over, opening them quickly, and my classmate would place their hand open against mine, draw their fingers together from tips to inner palm, and pull away, as if gathering strings in the center of your palm and lifting?"_

Turning their hands, she exposed his palm and demonstrated the idea, his hand resting palm up in hers, her fingers brushing inward, and drawing away. He was struck by the idea that she was quite gifted at avoiding direct answers, her skill at such very like his own. She was, like himself, an intricate puzzle, each piece a part of the greater whole, and yet unfathomable to the naked eye, a riddle to turn and examine, a delight to reveal and conquer.

_"__It won't work now, but then, then, as a child, when you still didn't really understand the nature of corporeal existence, when everything was still fairy dust and lightening bugs, and the world with all its infinite unanswerable questions fell to the wonders of determining how crickets knew to chirp, your hand would close as though attached to invisible strings drawing away, and it was mesmerizing, addictive, that desire to be drawn together, connected and tickled, but the means remained magically illusive, as so many things are when seen as a child. It was easy to believe it happened because it could happen, and the logistics or physics of it were unimportant. The science of it had yet to kill the illusion, the magic."_

She formed his hand into a fist, wrapping her hands around his, applying pressure as she spoke, and he was best pleased that the road was all but deserted as her touch was wreaking havoc on his concentration. Still, knowing her as he did, he believed there a point, circuitously approached to be certain, but a reason she was telling him this, describing the feeling as a child, the loss once she became an adult. She wouldn't be his Ruth if she didn't, however maddening her illogical digressions may appear to be on their surface. Maddening, yes, but also endearingly, hopelessly, adorable to him. He, for his part, was content to hold her hand. The story was an added bonus to an already revealing experience. Nevertheless, despite himself, his mind began to fetter the meaning, attempted to divine her point before she could reveal it, a mental habit he had been forced to, by default it seemed to him now, acquire rather quickly after her arrival at Five.

_"__This is how I feel...inside...with you, Harry."_

She released his hand, prying open his clenched fist, placing her hand open on top of his, and he felt the slight tug as she pulled her fingers to the center, and away, his fingers closing without thought, following hers as they drifted further from him. Wide eyed, he felt the invisible strings pulling, and a slight itching as his circulation began to spread from the center of his palm outward, and he thought he understood what she was trying to show him, about her, about them.

_"__Do you feel that? The pull, the tickle? Perfectly explainable logically, but I rather prefer the more magical aspects myself. That is how you make me feel, Harry. Like I was scrunched up tight into a balled fist, and you came and surrounded me, held me tight, and after a time, opened me up, reached in, understood my marks, and drew me out into the light, with you. That could never be confused for obligation. I hope to never live another moment without knowing that you are there, holding me, joined to me, however invisible the strings may be. I've only just realized I have been waiting for you, since I was a little girl playing games in a playground, without having the first clue that what we felt, what we repeatedly wanted to feel, was that pull, and only now can I put a name to it. Your name, Harry. In the simplest terms, Harry, I guess you could say I've waited a long time for you to find and pull me."_

She had decorated her face with an impish grin. He found himself left speechless in the wake of her admission, feeling both elated and frustrated that he had not thought of anything falling close to as beautifully articulated to describe how he felt with her, and he was reminded again of the '_The Embrace_,' the simplicity of Klimt's presentation of devotion. Reaching for her hand, he attempted to salve his poetic failures by kissing her pulse, the tickle of her demonstration still tingling the tips of his fingers, his lips curling into a wry smile at the intended double entendre allowed by her clever use of the word pull. He remained hopeful that she had forgiven his previous dalliances, even as he remained hopeful that she believed his denial that he had not stalked her, or had been manipulated by him. Or, at least, believed presently his past intentions, easily interpreted as both, had been noble if not entirely pure of heart in measure.

He didn't reply, owing to the lump that had risen in his throat, and contented himself to periodically gaze over at her, her hand clasped in his resting on his thigh, seeing her features gradually soften with sleep, her exhalations disturbing the lock of hair that had fallen forward, keeping time with her heartbeat. He had never known anything more precious and vulnerable than her as she peacefully dosed, and resolved then to take her directly to his, carry her into his home, and up the stairs, lay her on his bed, and possessively spoon himself around her as she slept, anticipating the moment when she would wake, and he the first thing she laid her eyes on, bugger the potential for surveillance, and bugger all the rest.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

He discovered she was a restless sleeper, one who initially claimed a side, and then spent the hours given over to sleeping migrating towards the center, turning until she awoke, spooned within his draped arm and leg, sideways along the king size surface of his bed. She was also a deep sleeper, deadened to her environment or attempts to wake her, and he was amused to find she had little recollection of conversations they'd had while she was still deeply asleep. If she were considered a silent observer in her waking hours, she more than made up for it while she slept, the subjects and themes murmured covering a variety of completely unrelated, and unconscious meanderings.

But it was the first few moments upon waking, before she looked at him, when half lidded she stretched herself like a cat, arching her back, toes pointed, arms reaching above her head, a deep, throaty groan vibrating from within her that left him equal parts amused and enamored.

As it happened, the brief window in which he could usually find a few hours respite in slumber had passed long before they had arrived at his, and having resolved to bypass hers for his, he was content to spend the few hours that remained them watching her as she slept. He had always been a physical sleeper, never one to wake up in exactly the same position as when he first settled in. And while she was even more surprisingly restless, it seemed to him she was likewise inclined given the numerous times they found themselves reaching for the other, a leg entwined with hers, her arm thrown across his chest, her head nestled against his side, her bum snug against his cock, and he adjusting awake as she continually re-situated herself in sleep.

He watched her, and listened as she murmured about grocery lists, potential gifts for Wes' upcoming birthday, a reminder to stop at the dry cleaners, and made a mental note to himself to remind her to get cat food, something she repeated, he thought, three times, and assumed the frequency suggested it rather vital.

He loved having her there, with him, in the bed he'd not shared with anyone before her. He loved that she left one foot exposed, while the other rested against his calf. He loved that her hair, usually so neat and tidy, was a riotous disarray as she slept, falling across her face, and absently brushed aside as she adjusted. He loved that she kicked the covers off, tossed pillows aside, but most of all, he loved that when she curled into him, her lips warm against his neck, inhaling deeply, she sighed his name as she exhaled, her breath warm against him. He loved it every time she did it, which, by his count, was currently three times.

_"__Morning."_

_"__Ummm, morning."_

_"__You need to get cat food."_

_"__Okay."_

_"__No, you mentioned it. A couple times. If we're...I don't want to be on the back foot with the other man in your life. So, pick up some cat food."_

_"__I...Oh, did I...I've been told I do that."_

_"__You do. As for who told you, that...I don't want to think about, thank you."_

_"__I'll spare you, then. Ummm, you're so warm. Did you not sleep?"_

She had turned fully into him, wrapping her arm around his middle and squeezing as she spoke, her leg winding around his, her knee nestled against his cock, and the hair at her crown tickled his nose. He wondered how much time he had from that moment to the moment when she realized she was currently wearing the barest minimum, that being a curiously mismatched set of undergarments consisting of a truly heart stopping sheer lace bra in virginal white, and the black lace panties he'd been fortunate enough to observe much earlier. That, and how he would explain how she became so deliciously disrobed while he remained fully clothed in faded T-shirt and track pants, excepting his feet, believing it all could prove an uncomfortable bit of verbal backtracking. Best to point out he had folded her clothing neatly, and if needs must, lie about having closed his eyes.

_"__Not a bit. Let's start over. Good Morning, Ruth."_

_"__Why? This is perfect, Harry. Like we're old hat already. We would have to be if I'm dressed in nothing, and you look as though your ready to go for a run."_

If he were wearing his watch, he felt the answer to his silent musings fell somewhere around twenty-three seconds. Clever girl.

_"__Right, about that. I folded your clothes. Right over there, see? And I only looked a little, just when absolutely necessary...buttons and zippers...they can be tricky. Didn't want to tear anything."_

_"__Very generous of you, Harry. That's all, then?"_

_"__Yep. Well, there's...That bloody bra just about gave me a coronary. It was all white lace...and sheer...and practically glowed. Its a menace, Ruth. I damn near passed out."_

_"__Ahhh, at last the truth. I take it you enjoyed the selection, despite the near fatal result, then?"_

_"__I would have enjoyed it more if you hadn't been wearing it, quite honestly. Or been in the least bit awake when I removed it. One handed. It's a skill I have honed, not bragging, just stating a fact. But, I am a gentleman, Ruth. I can only allow myself to take advantage of your sleeping, nearly naked body to a point. It's why I'm dressed to go running, if you must know. Normally, I sleep naked, myself. The thought of you, in my bed, with me, in just your panties and bra? Suffice to say I'd rather you fully conscious when I brush your naked body with mine."_

_"__There is precious little about what you just said that strikes me as any way gentlemanly, Harry. Mind you, I am a bit frustrated that the first night I spent in your bed, an intimate fixture I have entertained a number of fantasies about, was spent actually sleeping. I will admit I am glad that you aren't naked, though. I find the idea of disrobing you myself infinitely more appealing. There have been a fair number of fantasies about that, as well."_

As if to illustrate her point, she had worked her hand under the hem of his T-shirt while speaking, drawing it upwards, and began grazing his exposed stomach with her fingertips, and he matched her motions with his own fingertips along the exposed length of her smooth back, as she nudged her knee closer, and then on top of his hardening cock, applying a bit of added pressure, and then dropping it again between his legs.

_"__So, you're fine with my choosing to bring you here? I'll admit, I did take advantage as you were dead to the world driving back. I didn't want to wake you, not that I could, really, so..."_

_"__How did you get me up here? Without waking me, I mean."_

_"__Carried you. You are the very definition of dead sleeper, Ruth. I fear for the firefighter tasked with carrying you down a ladder to safety. Honestly, I think I might have blown my knee, but needs must."_

_"__I'm sorry."_

_"__What, my knee? No worries, it's been known to happen from time to time."_

_"__No, that I wasn't awake while you carried me. I would have liked being conscious for that. Though the knee thing is bad."_

_"__Trust me, its better this way. Count yourself blissfully ignorant to how long it took. Better that you think I Rhett Butlered you up the staircase. Quick and easy, three stairs at a time."_

_"__If I'm not entirely mistaken, after Rhett vaulted up the stairs with his Scarlet, wasn't that the night one Bonnie Blue Butler was conceived?"_

_"__Are you suggesting I went full Butler? I did not. I merely watched you as you slept. Answered a few questions, was delighted by your grocery list. I think a kitten for our Wes might be pushing your luck. Stop by your dry cleaners, by the way. Overall, I spent a fair portion of time avoiding one thrashing, restless arm or leg, all so that I could be the first thing you saw when you woke up. Unusually selfless of me, really."_

_"__I adore you, Harry. I really do."_

_"__Okay. I'll carry you to the loo. I'm not promising it will be impressive, but you're awake now, the distance isn't too much, so consider it on offer."_

_"__I'd much rather just stay in bed with you. All day. I can promise it will prove impressive, there's no distance to speak of, and you're awake now, so consider me on offer."_

_"__See, this is the kind of thing that will definitely put me in dutch with Fidget."_

_"__I'm shocked. After all the things I've heard and read, the legendary Harry Pearce, the man who taught a master class on honey trap techniques to fledgeling wanna be's, is turning down pussy out of concern for my cat?"_

Damn.

_"__I don't know which is more of a turn on, Ruth? You curled up next to me half naked, or the selection of words coming out of your mouth."_

It took little effort on his part to flip them over so she was secured underneath him, and, true to form, her choice of words had seared through him, making his semi-erect cock harden fully in mere seconds. What was it, exactly, about the word pussy falling from the mouth of a woman who for all practical purposes appeared excessively structured and reserved on the surface that had him completely undone? Certainly, she was not as innocent as her appearance would suggest to the casual observer, and without doubt he knew it was the subtle suggestion she was a bit on the naughty librarian side that had his libido in overdrive, the lurid innuendo which had habitually taunted and stroked him since his days of burgeoning puberty. He had always thought the idea a bit of a trope, but now, he couldn't deny it had a certain appeal. How in the bloody hell is he going to see her and not wonder about that damn bra? Or any of the others, assuming she possessed a variety. And, if he had anything to do with it, she would, his mind already picturing a wide assortment of colors and styles, even then anticipating fondling her while wearing them.

She had wrapped her legs around him, undulating against him while he pondered, her mouth working the pulse point on his neck, _I'll have to refrain from loosening my tie, _drawing his shirt up his back, fingers running the length of his muscles, and he tore his mind away from his internal questions long enough to look down between them and watch as her breasts, encased in that gloriously distracting bra pressed against his chest, molding to him, the nipples hardening as he watched. He almost didn't hear it, as he scooted down, placing his tongue against the soft lace, circling her, drawing the fabric down, delighting as the ripened nipple sprang back, capturing it with his teeth, running his tongue along the tip. His other hand had gravitated naturally to her lower abdomen, inching closer with each undulation of her body, his fingers finally sinking into her folds to find her so unbelievably wet he very nearly came.

And then he did hear it. His phone. Or rather, the ringtone indicating he had a priority message. She must have heard it too as she murmured something close to either _No_, or perhaps_, Never mind_, he couldn't be altogether certain. What he was certain of was that she was in the same state of frustrated as he, and not much either could do about it and call it satisfying. Resigned to a massive bout of blue balls, he couldn't resist heightening their mutual discomfort with a parting taunt. He traced her jawline with his lips, capturing her earlobe between his teeth, biting her lightly, licking and then drawing it into his mouth before whispering.

"_Much as I want, more than anything, to pet your pussy at this very moment, we, regrettably, need to get to the Grid. So, up with you, now, before I change my mind"_

Not to be outdone in the taunting department, she moved so that he fell back onto his back and straddled him. Sitting up, she undid the back of her bra, allowing the shoulder straps to drop lazily around her upper arms, but didn't remove it, held there, suspended by a physics he couldn't imagine, as she placed her hands palms down against his chest. He was mesmerized by the sight, wanting desperately to remove it altogether, and when she rolled her hips against him, the glimpses of exposed breasts afforded him had him biting his lower lip, and thrusting upwards, despite his clothing, or the cell phone missives. Quick as a cat pouncing its prey, she rolled once more, climbed off of him, slid casually off the bed, turned her back, removed her bra exposing the bare length ending with the lace of her panties, dropped it, walked to the doorway of his en suite, bent over at the waist, removed her panties in one fluid movement, flashing the moistening object he had spent many an evening envisioning, and tossed them casually over her shoulder.

He wouldn't have been surprised to find his face looked as though he had been slapped very hard, and had yet to accept it. The sight was so undeniably sexy he almost didn't hear her.

Almost.

_"__My pussy will be in the shower awaiting your attention. Please feel free to take your time, of course, but don't expect me to wait too long. We do need to hurry." _

_She will make you bleed._

Drawing back the curtain, hand firmly stroking his own hardened length, he was greeted with a thoroughly wet, soapy, deliciously naked Ruth.

_"__It's very possible you might kill me, Ruth."_

_"__Maybe. Though, not quite yet."_

Reaching, she gently removed his hand, replacing it with her own, grasping him firmly, squeezing him slowly while smiling what could only be described accurately in his mind as a wickedly naughty smile, and drew him to her.

As he moved to caress and wrap himself around her, he spied the bruises adorning her upper arms, no longer subject to the distractions of bras, the image settling like stones in his heart, and he saw, flickering bright from the darkness deep within him, the familiar shape of his shadow's smile, and knew it for a certainty this menacing portion of himself would not suffer being subjugated indefinitely.

The thought, predictable as it was, and despite the warmth of her presence, left him afraid.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

RECD: 5:12 AM

EYES/EARS CLOSED

IVY PROTOCOL

0700

URGENT

M

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	23. CH23: Ivy Protocol

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

"You don't really need to find out,

What's going on.

You don't really want to know,

Just how far its gone.

Just leave well enough alone,

Eat your dirty laundry."

_-Dirty Laundry, Don Henley_

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

RECD: 5:12 AM

IVY PROTOCOL

0700

URGENT

EYES/EARS CLOSED

M

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

He requested that Mike detour to Ruth's, then provided the address as the seconds passed and she unaccountably failed to acknowledge the necessity. He knew the slight stiffening of her body as they exited his was down to the moment she spied his driver waiting beside the car, and very likely why she'd yet to speak a single word, the quick nod of acknowledgment in the vague direction of Mike her single consideration of basic propriety.

Once inside, her body's rigidity gave way rapidly to palpable apprehension during the ride, her fingers nervously fidgeting, teeth absently gnawing her bottom lip, either owing to the presence of Mike, or the thought of reentering her previously compromised home he couldn't be sure, silently assuming it some combination of both, and as there was little left to him to mitigate any of it, he concluded it best to not make any sudden movements if it could be avoided.

The most obvious reason he was loathe to consider fell somewhere between both shame and regret having to do with the past hours spent together, and one he found maddeningly difficult to shake. Despite his reassurances that Malcolm had overseen the removal of surveillance equipment personally, and guaranteed her home was dully free, just one of the ill timed and intrusive messages he'd received thus far, she would not settle, and despite himself, her nervousness was beginning to wear on him, remaining just this side of annoyingly distracting by some miracle inherent to his being besotted in the extreme with a veritable changeling.

He contemplated her behavior presently, and surmised she was, indeed, a changeling having morphed from the naughty librarian he'd lusted for, making love to him loudly, and enthusiastically while covered in soapy lather with a potency so strong he'd completely forgotten his dodgy knee as he thrust into her, violently exploding and seeing nothing but blotches of white behind his closed eyes, to this nervous, inarticulate, and apprehensively silent creature sat next to him as they picked their way through the morning traffic. It had happened almost before he'd thought to blink, coinciding with the ritual of getting dressed, sharing a toothbrush, the incessant overtures emanating from his still unacknowledged cell phone, and she gradually shying away from him in the daylight seeping from behind his bedroom shades.

It had been perfectly predictable, and as he silently mulled it over, he had to admit that had he been less the amorous adolescent, he would have prepared himself for such an eventuality. Still, he soothed himself, regardless the predictability, it had seemed so sudden in effect, he found himself believing that he had imagined the entire evening, had, by some trick of the mind, breathed life into a fantasy defining his morning, and he was forced to glance towards her repeatedly after their shower to counter the effect, his eyes noting the discolored smudges along her arms, drawn to them unconsciously as a tongue is drawn to a missing tooth.

Honestly, he hadn't truly accepted her presence as a reality for a good portion following their shower, during which time he was undeniably antsy, his consciousness hyper-attuned to every sound, every movement from either of them. It was only when he observed her coffee mug placed next to his bearing the stain of her lipstick on the rim that he allowed himself a guarded sense of relief intrinsic to recognizing that it wasn't all a dream. He chuffed at himself, sighing in resignation that his hope in successfully navigating whatever they were together now came down to a half crescent stain marring the surface of an innocuous mug as proof that they were, in truth, something at all.

It occurred to him it had been a long time since he had fallen victim to what he had often callously dismissed as the morning after effect. That predictable adjustment of the eyes and consciousness, hours after the fact, when you unaccountably reprimand yourself inwardly for the masquerade, while suiting your face to give the impression it had been meaningful, not some drunken one off, and,_ Yes, absolutely, diner would be wonderful_. Rarely, if at all, had he stayed until morning's light, his custom accommodating a few hours versus several breaching the dawn, preferring to whisper soft goodbyes into half conscious ears, and dropping the proffered phone number in the nearest waste can after exiting. He had been very careful to guard himself, an almost religiously faithful follower of casual exploitations, and thus the discomfort he felt presently evolved to him rather cumulative in nature, the requisite bite for many year's worth of behavior culminating within him in this single, exact moment.

Worse still, _he_ had never in his life been on the _receiving_ end. Had gone to great lengths and used various subversive measures to avoid exactly that. And yet, despite himself, in this moment, staring out the window at the dulled and tired faces doing exactly the same, he felt, for the first time, what it meant to be aware that your phone number had been discarded despite assurances that previous sexual activities engaged in willingly were meaningful, and something on which hope could hang unreservedly. _What the fuck is this woman doing to us_, his shadow screamed from the void, and as he had little means to divine an answer, he closed his eyes, allowing his head to drop back against the headrest and pray he was being paranoid at best, insufferably insecure at worst.

Though he couldn't see her fidgeting next to him, he could feel her moving about and thought it quite possible that she felt as he did, confused, unsure, drowning in a sea of indecision, and he knew this feeling...this inability to know the next step, and the next was so contrary to both their inherent remits that it evolved more uncomfortably acute than any hoped for refection of affection's blissful abandon.

He turned to her, just as she turned her head to gaze at him, and the vulnerability present in her eyes nearly broke his heart, though he had little doubt she saw the same in his. He reached slowly towards her, brushing the side of her hand lain palm up with his pinkie, very quiet owing to Mike, and hoped she wouldn't pull away. She didn't, but neither did she immediately move to acknowledge him by touching him in return, instead choosing to watch as he continued to brush her hand, releasing a quiet sigh as he weaved his pinkie around her thumb, and closing her eyes. He felt her lean very slightly towards him before she turned her head to gaze out the window, and he released his own soft sigh as she drew her thumb into her hand, enclosing his pinkie within.

He had no idea the course they were on, the surfaces and bending turns were unidentifiable, despite the considerable portion of time he'd given over to plotting and determining the same as he drove them to his earlier. So too as he had watched her as she slept in the quiet of his bedroom. Were he twenty-five, he'd be content to let it shake out as it was meant to, hitching himself to the cart regardless the consequences, regardless the heartache and pain because that's what you did when you were twenty-five. At that age, there was no love without pain. The pain was love inasmuch as the affection shared became a torturous penalty should you part from your passion, bittersweet and wonderful, forcing you to return again, and again.

If he were honest, he could reconcile that, even at this age, as his affection for Ruth bore all the hallmarks of his younger self, and she had become a bittersweet torture to him, all the more so because she allowed him to see her, to feel and taste her, wonton and bursting with a level of passion that left him gobsmacked. Perhaps, he thought, that was what she meant when she said it was painful to watch him as he hid what she believed beautiful about him? To him, it was as equally painful to watch as she retracted into herself, having experienced this beautiful, newly discovered passionate creature, hidden behind numerous layers of clothing, her need for untenable levels of privacy demanding she hide herself, the scars she carries deeply carving the shell she adopts.

Would he sacrifice her required level of discretion to recapture some fleeting, youthful definition of companionship? Would he, really? No, and with age he had to admit there was a deliciously seductive virtue in remaining subtle, stoking those secret yearnings for another without revealing to all and sundry the nature of their relationship. Having her holding his pinkie, quietly establishing a connection in the daylight, was as seductive to him then as when she had grasped his cock and pulled him to her in the shower. Though, he had to confess, it was the secrecy that fueled his longing presently, the distraction inherent to wanting her to do more, knowing she wouldn't, and yet still anticipating that she might.

Which brought him back to his original concern, voiced silently within him as he drove, and she slept; How was he to work side by side with her, and still allow her to determine the speed, the circumstances, the future? How was he expected to sleep without her next to him, stretching as she awoke, curled against him on those occasions where she had determined to deny him? How could he find it within himself to suffer her denials, her evolving moods and curiosities, and remain only hers? How will he not destroy her as he had Jane? How long could he tame the fancies of his darker shadow before giving in?

He was in the midst of meditating that when he heard the door open on her side, watched as a hand offered itself in assistance, and smiled briefly at Mike's solemn, _Miss Ruth, _as she exited, and stood waiting at the pathway leading to her house. Normally jovial, talkative, and ready to regale him all manner of mischief enacted by his three children, Mike had been curiously silent throughout the drive, owing, no doubt, to the look he received from Harry the moment he spied Ruth exiting with him in the morning. For his part, he had only remembered his driver simultaneous to the ringtone announcing his arrival, and inwardly cursed himself for having forgotten, knowing it too late to cancel, knowing it for the first test in a series of unknown complications set before him involving the state of his relationship with Ruth. Catching his eye as they approached, Mike had raised his eyebrows, and offered a thumb's up gesture, which he was forced to cover by acting as though they shook hands every morning in greeting, and squeezing, admittedly, a bit too firm to be confused for anything other than, _Not one fucking word, or I'll surely break it, Mate._

Apparently, Mike had received the unspoken message, and his current determination to show absolutely no emotion one way or the other outside of standard courtesy almost made him burst out laughing. There were benefits, after all, to having a ruthless reputation, and on the rare instances when he and Mike had engaged in an authentic conversation traveling from here to there, he found he rather enjoyed his effusively optimistic outlook, despite his tendency to forget himself somewhat, and stomp his foot in it as he had chosen to do, ill advisedly, earlier.

In truth, he knew it was killing him not to openly recognize Ruth's presence because, once, in an unsolicited jaunt into offering advice, Mike had voiced his thoughts on his impressions of Ruth, which had curiously alined themselves to that image of naughtiness he himself had often pondered, and suggested to him, not too subtly, that she was a woman you hold on to. He hadn't argued or offered comment, rather he simply meditated the curiosity that Mike would think about Ruth at all, let alone form an impression he was willing to give voice to. He came to understand, as Mike continued to offer comment, and he allowed him without complaint, that Mike would not be included in the paltry few who did not in some way or another, in varying degrees, fall in love with Ruth just a little bit. He had born witness to many a dumbstruck smile, innocent flirting, and the circuitous verbal lengths many before him had traveled in the vain effort to gage her availability, if not outright receptiveness, watching as their eyes followed her as she passed, allowing not the first hint of answer.

As he thought on it now, crossing towards her, placing his hand possessively on her lower back and gently guiding her forward, Mike may be, to some innocent degree, sweet on her, but, of the two, only _he_ knew her taste. As they approached her door, he made a mental note to have a conversation immediately with him, just to ensure he didn't get it in his head to open his mouth about anything he'd be well advised to pretend not to have seen. Ever. He watched her face as it grimaced absently while she dug around her bag for keys, smiling as she puffed a lock of hair that had fallen in frustration, and noted the small scrap of paper half hidden beneath her shoe, smirking at Malcolm's dismissal of her chosen security measures. Still having little luck, she dropped her bag with a thump and knelt, rummaging furiously, and he, quite delighted despite her mood, turned to gaze along the street, wondering where she had learned the paper trick, and who had misinformed her that such a security measure was anything but painfully obvious to anyone she should verifiably be afraid of?

Dismissing the thought of asking almost simultaneous to it having formed, his eyes skipped quickly along the street, settling on the dark Audi parked approximately seven abandoned cars from where Mike stood awaiting him his return, and noted the lack of detritus present, while every other presented as having sat idle overnight, the requisite environmental tells present to the most insignificant of cursory observations. He vaguely registered Ruth's cry of triumph, feeling, rather than seeing her stand, the tinkling of keys and the sound as the key found its way home, turning, the bolt snapping, the sounds strangely distant in his periphery as he locked eyes with Mike, the slight, almost imperceptible nod given in return communicating he had noticed the car as well, and a silent affirmation he would keep a keen eye in his absence. Pausing for a moment longer, he stared openly towards the car, unclear if there were an occupant, and the image of Angela filled his mind, his senses telling him that while she had been the most obvious opponent, there were others who maintain control of the invisible strings under which she danced and died.

_"Harry? Is something-"_

_"No. Nothing. I was just thinking what a quiet street this is. Its nice."_

Glancing one last time to Mike, he moved quickly to prevent Ruth from joining him, which had the effect of forcing them together, flush, his hands on her arms, leg maneuvering between hers, gently forcing her backwards, his body igniting with the contact, her hands like fire on his chest, and she jumped away from him, stumbling backwards through the half open door. Her sudden movement had the unexpected result of leaving him off balance, and just as she had stumbled backwards, he had fallen forwards leaving both of them grasping at door handles and entryway furniture to regain balance, her wide eyes and 'O' shaped mouth receiving his version of the same, only slightly more tinged with pink.

Given her reserved attitude during the drive over, and her apparent desire not to find her body pressed to his, he found himself quite gratefully surprised when she turned after stepping backwards, and drew his face to hers, lavishing his mouth, cheeks, and throat with her lips before the door had fully closed. As he pushed her back against the bureau in her entryway, trapping her against it and his body, he allowed his tongue to dance along her bottom lip, dipping inside, a quick touch to hers, and then out again, sucking on her as if his life momentarily depended on it, only to repeat the process anew.

_"Christ, Ruth, you had me believing you regretted-"_

_"-No, no, no, never, not in a milli-"_

_"-Then you do a better than fair impression-"_

_"Had to...Mmnnn, Mike...Had to prepare...for...Grid."_

And despite himself, he was that twenty-five year old youth, desperate to stay there with her, tortured by the taste of her lips, the sounds which rose from her heedlessly, so painfully relieved that she had been preparing inasmuch as he had been, and reduced to half sentences offering the bare minimum of explanations in favor of languid, fervent kisses, her hands running through his hair, and he wanting eat her alive.

_"__You...distant...before...and the ride...I-"_

_"__Because...trying to control...all I could...wanted you, then...So-"_

He pushed every object immediately behind her to the sides of the bureau, and lifted her on to it, bringing her to eye level, and found it impossible to consider that they hadn't time, relishing the feel of her lips. Wrapping her legs around him, drawing him closer, her hands in his hair, he listened to her giggle as objects fell, post fluttered into disorganized heaps at his feet, making a mental note to replace the violet plant he had seen overturn in his periphery, and thought his day couldn't get any better until he opened his eyes, drawing his lips away, and saw the mirror behind her. _Oh shag._

_"__Ruth?"_

_"__Yes. Now."_

Pulling her back down, he spun her around to face the mirror with one hand, while his other hand ran up the front inside of her thigh. She was unbuckling and yanking at his pants, backhandedly, and as she ground herself against him, bucking and straining for leverage, his fingers found she was both deliciously wet, and without panties.

_"__Ahhh...the whole ride?"_

_"__Ummm, and while we had coffee. Its why I was...distant, Harry."_

And that marked the end of his control, which resulted in one ripped skirt, an overturned lamp, his cock thrusting rhythmically, his fingers joined by hers in fondling her swollen clit, a guttural groan from the depths of what felt like his toes, a panting, bucking Ruth riding him, crying out as she came, two pairs of eyes watching each other in the wall mirror, two hands joined together against its reflective surface, a sight more erotic it gave the impression of pulsing life, one wall in need of plaster repair, and though they couldn't know it then, one driver so red he appeared purple.

He had rested his face against the back of her bare neck, hunched over her as he attempted to slow his heart rate, and she, reaching behind her to hold his head, her balance secured with the connection, and her other hand still flush against the wall mirror as she came down, and he marveled the peace he felt still nestled within her, warm and pulsing with aftershocks.

_"__This is likely to be complicated, Harry."_

Truer words had never been spoken.

_"__I wouldn't have it any other way, my Ruth."_

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

_"I trust you understand you didn't observe anything you think you did this morning. Nothing out of the ordinary, or unusual in the least. Tell me I'm correct on that score, Mike."_

_"Absolutely. You are correct, Sir."_

_"Of course, you do realize I can see you smiling in the rearview, right?"_

_"Yes, Sir."_

_"Dare I ask?"_

_"I didn't **hear** anything I think I did, either. Sir."_

_"Good man."_

_"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."_

_"We've another detour. You'll need to speed it up as I was...unavoidably detained earlier. The Kingpin, as close to seven as possible, please."_

_"I'll do what I can, Sir."_

_"I've little doubt. And the Audi? Still following, I take it?"_

_"Not that I can observe, Sir."_

_"Keep an eye out. I trust your skills of evasion are as keen as ever?"_

_"Managed to take out only one mailbox, and half a sidewalk cafe of tables when last tested. No casualties, of course. I'm told it some kind of record. The wife made a cake to celebrate. Still, you'll want to buckle up, Sir."_

_"I can confirm any occurrence of casualties is likely to come up in your yearly evaluation, and feel it my duty to encourage you to make an effort to avoid anything unduly fatal or destructive. That said, you will lose them by any means necessary."_

_"Absolutely, Sir."_

_"Now that we've covered the Human Resources bit, go on and tell me something about your boys."_

In truth, he was only half listening, as Mike spoke with obvious devotion about his sons, as his eyes darted expertly the available mirrors in search of tails. Settling comfortably for the ride that would put him late by half an hour, he brought his hand to his lips, inhaling the scent of her still present, as though tattooed beneath his skin, and wondered how he would get through this day, or any following, without molesting her at every opportunity. As it was, he had barely made it out the door before they had ignited again, and he still felt the heat of her surrounding his cock, leaving him to believe that he would, hereafter, remain in a constant state of semi-erect arousal, a flushing picture of urgent adolescence, were she sitting next to him or elsewhere.

Drawing close to The Kingpin, he spotted Malcolm's rover secreted on a side street, and began rehearsing the excuse he would offer to explain away his considerable tardiness silently. Instructing Mike to go on, he stood outside the building, his thoughts traveling back to when both he and Malcolm were younger, and frequented the forgotten hideaway years before. In that time, it had been as much a safe house as any other, but for the benefit of constant luxuries allowed, its virtues known by numerous intelligence operatives and enjoyed in excess. Leave it to Malcolm to determine this place, of all the places known between the them, as appropriate for this hour of the morning.

He was amused to note the building itself remained an architectural eyesore, deliberately run down, a state of distress its owner, Ivy Thibodaux, carefully and deliberately cultivated. She was an English citizen by marriage, but American by birth, whose family line could be traced back to the merest hint of The States. It was said her French ancestry landed along the American Gulf, during a time of infancy when that portion of swampland was still owned by France, and once acquired, eventually became known as Louisiana. She had, years later, cut her teeth in the bayous of Lafourche Parish, in a town named for her ancestors, and was both wise and cagey, owing to years of experience with the American facet of Cosa Nostra, its shadowy influences within the region rife, and within which her family, it was widely rumored, figured rather prominently.

She was, and remained, one of the select few Americans he found himself able to tolerate, owing, though he had to admit wholly superficially, to her deep seated accent which she herself had admitted to using to great effect when in need of an extra bit of sweet to temper the bitter. Her ability to talk anyone into doing exactly as she originally intended was legendary to those fortunate enough to know her, and he had fallen victim to her lilting cadence on more than a few occasions, as had Malcolm.

However run down it looked superficially, Ivy had spared no expense designing the interior which was appropriately lavish, deliciously decadent in the vein of what she referred to as Storyville Chic. Once inside, you felt as though you had stepped back in time, immediately comfortable with the anything goes ambience, and the clear understanding that what happened within these walls, stayed within these walls, or you'd find yourself summarily shut out for talking out of turn. She was, without necessarily meaning to be, a spook's spook, and many nights had been spent working the details of one op or another, frequented by all manner of security people populating every echelon of the services.

Ivy was discrete, trustworthy, and had an enviable selection of liquors which had been consumed frequently between he and Malcolm, and it had not been unusual to share their first cup of coffee with Ivy after sleeping one off on one of the many overstuffed, comfortably worn couches which littered the main rooms. Her childhood lessons put her in good stead, and the similarities between the underworld of American based adjuncts navigating Mafioso traditions mirroring those considered just this side of legal within the Intelligence Security Services was understood, if not spoken of in detail.

He wondered absently, as he entered, if he should share with Ruth this secret hideaway, this bit of history, as he remembered one, quite possibly two occasions when her father had stitched him up in one of the rooms available upstairs, and decided best to leave that unaddressed as the rooms were rather designed to act as the brothel adjunct to Storyville's more seemly traditions. Something about her father in a brothel posed more potential for questions, and given he had, on occasion, taken advantage of said tradition, he dismissed the thought quickly, mentally filing it under the category of the less said, the better. The women, in keeping with the luxury and decadent beauty of the interior, and the origins of Ivy herself, were much the same, exotic, hard to resist, and even now a memory which made him smile, however briefly. He ignored the gleaming teeth of the smile bestowed earlier by his shadow tugging at him, finding the memories of that time, and those particular women more appealing to the darkened creature struggling within him, closing his eyes with the effort, and replacing the vision with one of Ruth as she looked out onto the water.

Glancing around, his eyes immediately read the biographical testament provided all who entered the details of the place. It was fashioned inside an alter of sorts, and never had he entered where he did not stop to read it, nor fail to notice the lit candles with pictures of various saints present. Neither had he been able to refrain from genuflecting before it, a curious habit which was repeated by anyone who had entered before, or subsequent his arrivals through the years despite the state of faith held within each heart and soul. Perhaps it was an unconscious nod to her father, the kingpin for whom the place was named, a well meaning derivation of gratitude sent up towards the Heavens for having created this creature name Ivy, and thus, allowing this place to exist in the present. If Thames hid a weeping wall for the fallen in its belly, The Kingpin provided the infinitely more accommodating alter, and bless, liquor served by women with legs a kilometer in length.

He moved unconsciously to complete the ritual, genuflecting as was required. As he did so, he watched the candle of Saint Jude flicker delicately, holding pride of place, with a feeling of mild discomfort. Frowning, he turned, registering a single bartender, and locating Malcolm, returning his smile knowing without being told that he had done exactly the same upon his arrival. Wondering, too, if Malcolm had noticed old Jude at the ready, and if he had, whether the effect had been similar to his, or easily dismissed as superstitious paranoia. Noting the two mugs placed before him, he considered the absence of alcohol suggested caution, despite the hour not having yet past eight, and he meditated the need for urgency as indicated by his early morning missive, concluding it not a good omen when taken as a whole.

_"__Good morning. Coffee, is it?"_

_"__And to you. Tea, actually. Ivy's brewed up a pot. She'll be delighted to see you."_

_"__Ah, she's here, then? Good. I'm sorry-"_

As if sensing his presence, the woman herself appeared, her face breaking into a grin the moment her eyes caught his, and sauntered over with the characteristic roll of her hips he remembered so clearly. Time, he observed, had been good to her. The lines decorating her deep green eyes more a testament to joy than age, and while she had lost the lean, panther-esque qualities inherent to her earlier years, she still remained a strikingly attractive woman, nevertheless. Wrapping her arms around him, he returned the hug as she squeezed him, refusing to stop until he returned the favor. Stepping back, she looked him up and down, squinting her eyes as she assessed him, pursing her lips, and then dropped her arms from his sides. Her eyes, he discovered, were as sharp as ever. As was her tongue.

_"__You're hair is longer, cher. Leettle cur-els. I like it, me."_

Her voice was deep and throaty, each word drawn as if carrying multiple syllables, the cadence of her people, melodic to his ears still in all the intervening years. Try as he might to detail the origins, her voice struck him as one part island, one part French, and the rest some amalgam of American English vernacular specific to a region requiring 'TH' to be softened to 'D' or 'T,' and the periodic reference to oneself using the third person 'Me.' In all, it had the disarming affect he imagined inherent to being petted into a position of complete, supine submission, particularly when she reached to touch the curls adorning the nape of his neck, just above his collar.

_"__You've filled out a bit, no? Sof-dah. Not dat hard boy from so long a-go. Still hard, yes, but not so mush whid de angles. Its good, no? So, how is your Jane, then?"_

_"__Fine, I guess. No longer mine. She kicked me several years ago, I'm afraid."_

_"__Ah, yes. Did I not say as much? As it should be. You were a bad boy, Hair-ree. A very bad boy, no?"_

_"__Yes, very bad to hear her tell it."_

_"__No, thank you, no. Not for my ears deese tales from your Jane. Dis ha-pens. I know e-nough alreah-dee."_

_"__Did you verbally accost Malcolm here, or am I the only recipient of special early morning oral scoldings?"_

_"__Oh, oui, I did."_

_"__She did. Sarah."_

_"__Oh! Sarah! So in love wid you. Foolish girl, ev-en more fool, dis man. Don't get me star-ted again. We've alrea-dee set-tulled dat. Jus look at his face, dere! Sit, Hair-ree, have your tea. Talk. I leave you to it, den."_

She had reached to touch Malcolm's cheek, having always been a physically demonstrative person, each of them knew she would interrupt them periodically throughout their stay, wordlessly, a hand on a shoulder as she passed, a fingertip on top of their resting hands. Despite their hardwired sense of English reserve, each had grown comfortable with the physical displays of affection, as well as the knowledge that though she may be hearing everything they said, she might well be considered deaf and mute.

Moving to leave, she hesitated, as he sat himself, sighing as he settled, tilting her head as she regarded him, her mouth dropping slightly as an idea formed, began to evolve on her face, and the crinkling lines around her eyes began to deepen as she gradually smiled at him.

_"__You have a wo-man, Hair-ree, no? Don't lie to me. No. You do, I can sense it. Oh dear, cher, you are in love, no?"_

And for the second time in less than four hours he was certain that his face looked for all appearances as having been slapped hard, and he left dumbstruck, awash with ten-second delay. That both situations were at the hands of women who were both adored by, and adoring of, devoted paternal figures did not escape him.

_Oh, shag._

_"__I'm certain your radar is mistaken, Ivy."_

_"__And I'm ee-quaal-ly cer-tain it would be de firs time, Hair-ree."_

Hands firmly on her hips, her liquid emerald eyes bore into him, and he was left at a loss of method by which to obfuscate his way around her. God save him from women and their bloody senses.

_"__That happens, you know."_

_"__I do. Juss not to me. Be in love, Hair-ree. You wear it well."_

Before he could comment, she had tapped him lightly on the nose, then gently tugged his earlobe, turned and walked away. Turning to Malcolm, he noticed a clear look of discomfort decorating his face, and while he knew that his love life was hardly a topic for which Malcolm would willingly subject himself to conversationally, the look itself carried a rather heightened level of alarm that struck him as problematic, placing his internal mechanisms of subterfuge and distraction on ready alert, ignoring they had failed miserably on task with Madame Thibodaux.

_"__I take it from your text you've handled Ruth's House?"_

_"__From top to bottom, all clear. Eyes and ears effectively closed. I signed off early this morning. As for the recordings, I'm afraid we've hit a wall. If they exist, I'm at a complete loss where. Or, with whom, quite honestly. I think it might be too optimistic to think Angela destroyed them, in any case. Quite a significant amount of hardware, Harry. I'll admit, I was a bit baffled as to the reason."_

_"__So...I'm to understand we have no clear understanding why her house was chosen? No hint to that effect based on types of devices used? Nothing illuminating, from a technical standpoint?"_

_"__Not that I should be confident suggesting, no."_

_"__What about in theory? Understanding it all guessing, of course. What, or who would you be inclined to suggest without...ahh, confidence?"_

_"__Harry, you are very well aware I don't like to cast aspersions-"_

_"__Lets assume that admirable quality of yours we do not share took an unscheduled runner for the moment. Humor me, Malcolm. I'm drinking tea, in a brothel, at your early morning request."_

_"__Guessing? Unavoidable to ignore Ms. Shaw. Angela confirmed herself responsible for placement. Had they known each other that well? Seemed a curious set of circumstances from the get. So, obviously, if forced to theorize, Juliet Shaw, and...well, whomever she's currently petting to advance herself. Single minded, that one. Just my impression, you understand, but she strikes me a more feminine version of one Oliver Mace, don't you find?" _

Juliet. Her edges were plentiful, some brash and abrasive, others sharp enough to draw blood. It had been what drew him, and when they were done, she retained her anger, and he his grief despite the numerous couplings in which each attempted to excise both from within themselves individually. In total, she was not unattractively hard, and his considerable familiarity with her allowed him the present ability to extend any benefit associated with doubts as to her motivations towards suborning any act intrinsic to undermining civilization as they knew it. Had she been involved? Doubtful, and yet he found himself setting the thought aside to meditate later, his face allowing nothing of his internal indecisions, and Malcolm, sensing he was not likely to receive any acknowledgement, or answer, regarding the question, settled himself, without further comment or queries as to his personal assessment.

_"__Then, there's the equipment, of course. Had to come from somewhere, though there isn't a single trace of requisition, and I can always fetter that out. Without fail, Harry. Not a trace to be found in this case. At a guess, one could assume each item acquired by way of individual broker. Black market means. Which...Well, you can well imagine the inflated costs to something like that, not simply just the equipment, but the price for silence. There has to be some exceptionally deep pockets there. It really just comes down to determining who Five pissed off. Which is to say, who you pissed off, I would assume?"_

_"__That's a rather lengthy list of options. Best we try to narrow it down a bit. I have to admit, Malcolm, I'm not sold on Juliet's involvement. At least, not beyond being the rube instructed to grant Angela entry into Thames. It's not her...She's many things, but disloyal to our very foundations? The Royal Family? No. She couldn't have known about the bunker. As for Angela, well..."_

_"__I don't believe she was committed...to the act...as a whole. You?"_

He laced his fingers around the mug, feeling the warmth against his palms, wondering how to answer, how much to reveal? He had offered his thoughts to Ruth unreservedly, or so it had seemed, but now, strangely, felt the innate need to remain obtuse with this long time friend and colleague patiently waiting for him to reply.

_"__Who can say? I've seen some of the best break, as have you. It's terribly individualized, when they do. Ultimately, she had a clean line of sight on both Adam and me. Could have taken us both out, and chose not to. I think she went out the way she decided to go out, as do they all. We'll never know for a certainty, regardless."_

_"__And, Ruth?"_

_"__And Ruth, what?"_

_"__Harry. Surely you see that there was a specific reason Ruth-"_

_"__What I saw, Malcolm, was an agent on the blink, and Ruth caught in the crossfire. Could happen to any one of us. As one of them is cooling in the morgue at the moment, I don't imagine an explanation will be forthcoming."_

_"__That's were we differ, then. I think Angela provided an explanation. I think she wanted something from Ruth...the truth, an explanation, call it whatever you want, but I believe she wanted to die, just not without confronting Ruth first. Odd way to go about it, I'll grant you, but she did alert us to the missing file. She knew Ruth would discover it missing in time. She used whomever was using her, in the end. Quite brilliant when you examine it at a distance, really."_

_"__Shooting Adam was an act of brilliance? Czech bombs are sweet? Quite a bit of bloody distance you've got there, Malcolm."_

_"__That's...Not what I mean, and you bloody well know it! Stop spooking me, Harry." _

_"__Well, what _**_do_**_ you mean?"_

_"__I mean Angela all but told us there was something much more dangerous going on! Why do that if she didn't mean to help in some way? Harry, who is pulling these strings? We're going to be forced to look at it sometime. Maybe not now, exactly, but the kind of money we're talking about? Harry, its people breathing very rare air who are infinitely well connected in the upper echelons. No doubt at all, on that score. _**_Those_**_ people are _**_your _**_people, Harry."_

He shouldn't have found himself surprised that Malcolm had drawn the same conclusions as he, and yet he found himself at a complete loss for response. His mind had fixated on the use of _strings_, the pulling and connections inherent, and naturally found its way to Ruth's demonstration earlier as they neared his, his mind envisioning her hand pulling from his, and his fingers feeling the tug of something invisible yearning for him to follow. He was left to contemplate the two images side by side, one menacing, the other benevolent, and thought the yin-yang imagery disturbing, though not altogether unpredictable. Perhaps it was the natural balance between good and evil which demanded the previous liaison with Ruth, falling, as it had, subsequent a grievously malicious act attempted against the Realm? Then again, perhaps the belief was his own need to validate their actions, his and Ruth's, manifesting thrush and demanding, wanting to expel any hint of untoward selfishness on his part, wanting them to remain clean and genuine amongst the debris of malevolent unknowns.

_"__My people. I'm loathe to consider it, Malcolm, but I fear you are correct. Certainly neither Angela nor Juliet possessed individually, or in combination, the...ahhh, connections necessary. I think, possibly, Multinationals...Big oil. So the cousins, no shortage of money, there. Quite likely, Malcolm, as relates those closer to home, I think, perhaps, some examination of the ennobled class is in order? Particularly those involved in the areas of World Finance enjoying the comforts of the beknighted class? That should cull the options down to a manageable number. If one were inclined to investigate, that is."_

_"__I should think a cursory glance into certain governmental officials warranted?"_

_"__Yes, well one can never underestimate the power inherent to a dangling brass ring. I can think of several current officials who would consider selling their own mothers for a shot at vaulting several rungs up the ladder. Power can make despots of us all as easily as not."_

_"__Have you anyone in mind, particularly, or-"_

_"__Myers. Gas and Stream. Ennobled. Ex-Ambassador to Russia. Enjoys a better than average measure of power, particularly with the PM. Stevenson. Saudi Ambassador. Real affinity for the cousins, that one. And, he's landed gentry, to boot. I'll look into the services, myself. Mace, of course. His position as JIC Chair leaves little chance for plausible deniability, in any case. Siviter, possibly. He's admirably regarded, plays very close to the chest. I have to admit, I rather enjoy him. Still, I'll look into it. As for the whole of Six, Hugo mentioned something to me, just after Tom...blinked. And there's Clive's velvet fascism. I think Collingswood would be ripe for the right price. And appropriately patriotic, fanatical rhetoric, of course. Militant to a fault, curious lack of gray area. If I was forced to provide interpretations of character, I'd have to conclude Michael by far exceeds even Oliver's reach and dedication to goals. Stunning, his relative lack of empathy, really. Borderline Imperialist. I shudder to think who in Five, but it seems inevitable, regardless. Angela navigated both Five and Six, so it shouldn't come as a shock were we to find someone currently active participating."_

_"__I'll look into funds transfers, off shore accounts, unusual financial windfalls, and the like."_

_"__Yes, of course. For now, let's keep this between us, what with Adam recuperating. If the goal was to render us lame by one, I think it advisable to continue as such, for appearance sake, at least."_

_"__Agreed. I rather like the idea of a project for the wee hours. Prime housekeeping hours, I've always found."_

Unable to shake the image of Ruth's magical strings, he wondered if it wouldn't be wise to discuss this meeting with her, include her particularly unconventional cerebral skills to the task given Malcolm, despite his voiced intention to exclude everyone. Doubtless as he was the subject of Angela Wells remained an open wound, he couldn't rid himself of the idea that there was no better person suited to divining Angela's associations within the maze before them than Ruth. If done carefully, it would allow for a faster resolution, as well as provide him more opportunity to spend time with her under the auspices of work related tasks, and given he'd little opportunity to provide himself some measure of framework in which to categorize his relationship with her beyond something falling somewhere in the area of personal, but not yet a recognized couple, he found himself indelicately anxious to grasp at any straw afforded him. Which reminded him of Malcolm's earlier statement, and found him expelling a deeply held breath he hadn't known he was holding as the thought took shape in his mind, and the anxious anticipation of working closely with Ruth evolved into outright apprehension. Squinting his eyes, he allowed himself another calming breath before directing his full attention to the man sat opposite, knowing the answer before the words were allowed to pass his lips.

_"__Was?"_

_"__Humm?"_

_"__You said _**_was_**_. Earlier. Having to do with why anyone would surveil Ruth. Past tense. Which would infer you understand now what you didn't before?"_

_"__Did I?"_

_"__Yes. You did."_

_"__Huh. Chalk it up to lack of sleep, shall we?"_

He watched as the discomfort washed across Malcolm's face, morphing quickly into impassivity, and he felt his right eye twitch once as he continued to stare, and Malcolm continued to meditate the third space floating before him. His mind had begun silently joining the dangling threads, Ruth's house surveillance, joining to Malcolm's preexisting knowledge of his affection, his present obvious discomfort, and his less than subtle deflection of details inherent to theory becoming fact, he counted himself three-quarters certain this safe house meeting was likely not going to provide Intel he would find himself at ease with. Oddly anxious, he chose the lesser travelled path, preferring the head on collision to any futile machinations designed to delay hearing what Malcolm had determined required this stroll into their shared past, which he was now certain had little to do with Angela Wells, or some as yet unidentified band of treasonous miscreants pulling the strings in search of chaos and anarchy.

_"__Right. What's the urgency?"_

_"__Well, two things, really. The first is Grid related, to an extent. Seems there's a bit of uranium juggling in Bagdad with the cousins."_

_"__What do you mean juggling?"_

_"__I mean, factions within the intelligence community worldwide have been less than subtle, and the idea that uranium is up for grabs, weapons grade uranium, mind you, is a very poorly held secret. I've been watching it, and I think it might be something that the Americans will use to support the WMD accusation, having found nothing thus far, and support is, well, wavering with the allies, to be blunt."_

_"__So...The idea is plant it, discover it, decimate a country?"_

_"__Put simply, yes. Well, decimate what's left, really."_

_"__Fuck me. Who knows?"_

_"__Well, that's the thing, Harry. I suspect, and its really only suspicion, but I believe there is someone, at least one, from Six, perhaps several over at Grosvenor, various sundry intelligence agents in the area, Baghdad is rife with all sorts presently. Its anybody's guess really. Point is, I believe it a bit more than strictly fantasy if forced to evaluate merits."_

_"__Point is, if it is true, it has to be stopped. On the quiet."_

_"__Indeed."_

_"__Looks like that vacation to sunny Baghdad I've been pining for just became a reality. And this is, of course, in addition to, but not related to yesterday's bomb scare?"_

_"__I'm afraid so. I've already worked out the details, a suitable legend if needed, but, honestly, I'm certain everyone knows the players, so a legend would become rather moot. On the upside, I think it a fairly easy prospect to float the idea you've decided to take a bit of time, you know, to the others."_

_"__Oh, you think so? Simple as an unscheduled breather? Right." _

_"__Well, its not ideal, I'll grant you, but it will have to work, in any event."_

_"__I imagine so. All communication must be exclusive to you. I'm assuming the DG and the Home Secretary remain unaware?"_

_"__As to your involvement, yes. Overall? Honestly, its a crap shoot, either, or both, could be completely aware, and siding with the cousins according to PM directive, our 'special relationship' being what it is. Who knows?"_

_"__Unsanctioned black op it is, then."_

_"__It would appear so, yes."_

_"__And the other?"_

_"__Other?"_

_"__You said two things. The first was Baghdad. What's the other?"_

Again, he watched as Malcolm's face displayed a level of discomfort that had the effect of unnerving him insofar as he understood instantly whatever additional information Malcolm was secreting was more, unlikely as it would appear, disruptive than conformation of a deliberate act of planting weapons grade uranium to support the American cause for war.

_"__Ivy? Can we...Would you mind bringing us a bottle and glasses?"_

Shit.

_"__Malcolm. Its barely eight-thirty in the morning, surely it can't be as bad as all that? I'll not turn down a drink, of course, but given we've just decided on embarking on a black op to submarine our Nation's closest ally, I find it hard to imagine anything-"_

_"__Its about Ruth."_

Well, he had to hand it to him, he hadn't imagined the unusually blunt nature which accompanied the statement, nor the fact that he'd not even been allowed to toss one back prior to his stating it outright. More's the pity, it would seem as he was left little recourse but to adopt what he hoped appeared to Malcolm as a forbidding enough glare he would tread carefully with any forthcoming details. Glancing at his watch he surmised it took somewhere in the area of fifteen hours for the bubble of them to burst wide open. _God Damn it._ As if it weren't already bad enough Malcolm had fettered them out before, now it seems he knew something that had him unaccountably in need of a drink at eight-bloody-thirty in the morning.

_"__I'm in no mood for a lecture about my intentions or anything else as relates Ruth, Malcolm. You would be well advised to stop now."_

_"__Right. Understood, of course. Just...It...shit."_

Watching Malcolm meditating the contents of his glass, there began a gradual creeping feeling of dread within him, forming flush throughout his abdomen, and his heart rate increased proportionately the stronger the feeling emerged. His mind cast back to her beginnings on the Grid, her status as a mole, and wondered, albeit with some amount of skepticism, if Ruth remained some manner of mole, for whom he wouldn't guess, but had he, in his fantasies, literally walked head first into a trap? Had it all been a meticulously charted setup she had played so well as to be confused for entirely, painfully genuine? While his heart told him no, his shadow had covered the ground left to him in banishment these few hours, and whispered foul, nurturing his latent insecurities, stoking the fires of suspicion and threat, and he was quite unable to erase the scowl that decorated his face for something a bit less formidable to anyone observing them.

_"__I wonder, Harry, do you know why I chose this place, after so much time?"_

_"__No, Malcolm, and I should warn you I'm hardly of a mind to play at guessing games at the moment. Perhaps, as it happens to be a place with which we are both familiar?"_

_"__Yes, of course. But, more to the immediate point, Harry, its a place where I believe we forged a…Well, a bond of sorts, and the inherent rules are understood and clear."_

_"__Those being..."_

_"__What happens here, stays here."_

_"__Okay. Agreed. It stays here. Out with it."_

_"__Her necklace."_

_"__Who's necklace? Ruth's? The charm thing?"_

He had taken the first few fingers in one go, and fluttered his hand around his neck, waving it in the air away from him, wanting, if it were at all possible, to appear dismissive. Grasping the bottle, he poured another two fingers and wondered inwardly how many alcoholics started their mornings by telling themselves, _Its just a couple, no cause for alarm. _

_"__Yes, the...charm thing...she wears habitually. In which was secreted a listening device, you may remember?"_

_"__What about it?"_

_"__A listening device, Harry."_

Inwardly, he concentrated on resisting the urge to physically hurt Malcolm in some manner, and used the burning liquid to temper his uncharacteristic yearning to erase the irritating look of hesitation presently decorating his colleague's face. She couldn't be a mole, it was simply inconceivable to him. Had his morning started any other way, perhaps he could find a way to countenance the thought, but he wasn't such a fool as to not be able to identify the difference between genuine and counterfeit physical responses. If she had faked anything, which he sincerely doubted, she had missed her calling on the stage, and he'd be well advised to tender his resignation immediately. Still, apart from that menacing bra, and the mole resting on her hip, perfectly highlighting the rise of her bum, he couldn't deny that the presence of that necklace had gone unnoticed by him, habitual as it may be.

_"__Yeah, got that. A listening device, and here's me asking for a second time, what about it?"_

_"__She's still wearing it."_

_"__How the hell would I know, Malcolm? You seem to be the one obsessed with her jewelry selections. Habitual, I believe it was, not five bloody seconds ago-"_

_"__It wasn't a question, Harry. She's wearing it now."_

_"__What if she is? Fine. Is this really more important than weapons grade uranium? Ruth's selection of necklaces?"_

_"__And she was wearing it last night. After she left the Grid. With you."_

_"__Malcolm, I swear I'm moments away from coming across the table-"_

_"__Harry! The device is still active in the necklace!"_

The words floated in his consciousness, _active_ taking pride of place, red neon flashing in his mind's eye, and he found he couldn't stop the curl of his upper lip, the clenching of his hand, tight around the empty tumbler sat before him. _Active_. He felt his lips form the word, silently, the ringing in his ears blurring his ability to comprehend anything of his immediate environment, save Malcolm's passive, quiet face.

_"__You're not...Are you telling me everything she did after she left the Grid, including what she may or may not be doing at this very moment has been, no, is being, recorded somewhere? Tell me that is categorically _**_not _**_what you are telling me!"_

_"__That's what I'm telling you, Harry. All recorded."_

_"__Where, for Christ's sake?"_

_"__Well, that's the good news. Somewhat. Only I have access to it, and only I know about it. Which is why I asked to meet here, frankly."_

_"__Just for the sake of argument, you know this for a fact how, exactly?"_

_"__Right. Well, after clearing Ruth's house, quite honestly, I found I couldn't sleep. And, infrequently mind you, when I can't sleep I'll...umm, hack into the Five mainframe, just to, you know, perform a bit of...well, lets just call it general housekeeping. Which is what I was doing when it occurred to me the file size for the period covering Ruth's interaction with Angela was exponentially larger than what would be considered necessary, and it was about then that I discovered the file was accumulating Intel as I was observing it. Which, well, I don't have to tell you, was curious. And curiosity being what it is, I opened it and discovered two things. First, I had, in the confusion, Angela, the bomb, Adam, completely forgotten to remove the listening device from Ruth's necklace, and clearly, in the confusion, mind you, so had both Ruth, and Colin." _

_"__And, second?"_

_"__Second, and this is…Well, it seems that I initially mistook what we attached to Ruth for the PRS22, and not the newer model, the PRSX5. Now the PRS22, it has limited range and life span, good for a quick close job, but not for those periods in the field where an agent has no time frame, or designated point of contact. In effect, the newer PRSX5 carries unlimited range and longer life span, I think twenty-five hours minimum before it begins to fade, and we added a tracker mechanism which identifies where an agent is at all times, as well as maps where they have been. Its really a fine piece of kit, and the enhancements have really benefitted-"_

_"__For fuck's sake Malcolm, if its not too much to ask could you just simply-"_

If he were being honest, he rather relished Malcolm's simultaneous flinching away from him the moment his fist came firmly, violently in contact with the table's surface, watching him as his eyes skittered towards Ivy, then the soiled table top, finally coming to rest again on his.

_"__Right. Sorry. Umm, so, essentially, Ruth's device never stopped recording. There is documented proof of Angela's actions, as well as the secreted bunker diagrams, some interactions with...you, the entire official debriefing. Everyone she interacted with was recorded, all of which you are perfectly aware."_

_"__And?"_

_"__All the rest. All of it, I'm afraid. Everything in perfect audible detail, really."_

_"__The rest?"_

_"__Yes, err, everything. Right up until you left her this morning. Its recording as we speak, in fact."_

What the actual fuck is he telling me? There is no possible way these words are emanating from that mouth, not now, absolutely not happening. No.

_"__And you didn't think to turn the damned thing off!"_

_"__Of course I did! The problem is I can't! Not while she's wearing it. It was designed for any eventuality! It is performing exactly as designed, Harry! Exactly. The fact that its presently recording Ruth is…Its simply a situation that couldn't be accounted for. We couldn't have predicted that she would have cause to even wear it, Harry! She's a desk spook! That she happened to be wearing it while spending a considerable portion of time with you...and the...interactions…Completely unforeseeable from a tech standpoint."_

_"__Why!"_

_"__Why...what? Why was it unforeseeable? That's a bit myopic, Harry-"_

_"__Why can't you turn the bloody thing off, Malcolm!"_

_"__Oh, yes, of course. Well, see, without getting too detailed, the newer model, Ruth's model, can't be disarmed at a distance. We designed it that way in the event the agent was...killed, or Five was compromised in some way. It records events, regardless. It can't be interrupted except by literally entering a code, which refreshes every quarter hour, and is known only to one person. Me. And it has to be in my hands, physically for that to happen. So, while I thought about it, Harry, there was very little that could be done."_

_"__Supposing you're killed?"_

_"__Wha...Well, yes, I see your point. That would be a problem. In which case, it would record until it exhausted its ability to do so. Or was discovered. Either case, the Intel recorded would still be available should someone wish to access it. If they knew to access it. Well, if they knew it was accessible at all, really. And knew the codes, of course."_

_"__And you've accessed this Intel? Is that what you're saying?"_

_"__No! Well, yes, but not...I didn't listen to all of it. Well, most of it, I did. But I skipped forward...When it became more personal...Of an intimate nature. I didn't wish to intrude, is all."_

_"__Bloody generous of you. And you know I was...with her...until this morning how, exactly?"_

_"__As I said, the PRSX5 comes equipped with a tracker. The tracker told me where she was. Then, you were late, which is obviously uncharacteristic, so it wasn't hard to make the leap you were still...in her company before arriving here. She's only just arrived at Thames. See?"_

Punching a few numbers into his phone, he waited until Malcolm captured the information he wanted, holding it for him to observe the blinking red dot which was, apparently, proof that Ruth was at Thames, which naturally lent credence to the understanding it was both presently active, as well as having preformed as designed in recording her whereabouts for the last twenty some odd hours, much of that time spent with him.

_"__And I'm here, specifically, for you to tell me this? For it to remain within these walls hereafter, owing to house rules?"_

_"__Yes, in part. Also, the Baghdad situation. Two birds, if you will. And, well, we're the only ones that know, at the moment. I would like to keep it that way, as I'm certain you would also prefer. Problem is, I can erase everything. Wipe it clean, never happened, no problem. But, we have to get the device back, and I can't figure a way to do so without alerting Ruth, and then I don't want to imagine the fallout from that, quite honestly. I was hoping you'd have some...idea that would be...useful in that regard? You know, handle it, while still keeping her sweet and completely unaware?"_

_"__We can't just ask for it back?"_

_"__Well, yes, obviously, but this is Ruth, and..."_

_"__She'll fixate, and then surmise you shit the bed."_

_"__Well, not how I would have phrased it, but essentially correct, yes."_

Running his finger along the rim of his tumbler, he ignored the flashing _two birds_ pulsing in his mind's eye, knowing inherently, Malcolm had little understanding of the reference, the suggestion that killing two birds, while generally an ideal situation, carried with it the corollary suggestion that Ruth, the little bird loved by her father with abandon, would find herself one of the two birds meeting some designed and fatal end.

_"__How could you have forgotten such a crucial simplicity, Malcolm? I know you were fond of Angela, but we've been through worse and I've never known you to blink?"_

_"__It wasn't Angela. Not entirely, no. It was shocking, yes, but...You might as well know, I've told Ruth already, so trust me when I tell you, I want this wiped as badly as you do. Well, not really as bad, per say, but...The bomb. I wasn't the one who disarmed it. I froze, Harry. It was Adam. I know he let everyone believe it was me, and I let him. That's true enough. But I told Ruth the truth. Quite honestly, I find it impossible to lie to that woman."_

_"__Likely because it is near impossible."_

_"__Yes, that's it exactly. So I told her, confessed that I'm sorely lacking in the bravery department, and she told me to just let it lie, allow everyone to believe something that wasn't true about myself. And I did. That's the inexcusable shame of it. I did. I couldn't sleep for the guilt. Recorded in its entirety, nevertheless. I'm sorry, Harry. I truly am."_

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on every breath in and out, calming himself, reminding himself that the man sat before him was not his opponent, but simply a man, perhaps even one who had breached the wall into friendship, understandably hesitant with the thankless task of revealing what he understood, in his moment of first discovery, would not be received favorably. Despite him, the image of Ruth's bruised arms floated into consciousness, at points both hidden and revealed as the lather streamed away less than two hours ago, and he knew his hold on self control was a dangerously pliable lie reiterated to himself. His hands had marked her, even now, hidden beneath whatever she was wearing, but present, discolored and tender, regardless. These hands, as he regarded them, not satisfied with damage to Ruth, but wanting more, wanting Malcolm.

_"__Malcolm. Your bravery is measured in different ways. I'm certain that is what Ruth had in mind when she told you to keep quiet. While I wish it had been different, I'm inclined to suggest by that time, all of us were running on empty. Finding the coatings altered? Who could even imagine the time spent doing that enough to be prepared for such a situation? The point is, you didn't run, you stayed next to Adam, and there's a certain bravery in that, too. You won't freeze next time, if we're unfortunate enough to face a next time."_

_"__That's just it, Harry. There will be a next time, you and I both know it. At times, I really question the purpose of what we do. All the years, you and I, and the threats are greater, the faces have changed, but threats continue to mount. Its all so very Sisyphean when you allow yourself to examine it."_

_"__Best not to, then."_

_"__Indeed."_

_"__As to...Ruth. Did you...you know that she is aware you've...twigged, yes?"_

_"__Afraid so, yes. I'll confess she was rather more calm than I would have guessed. I'd have thought her more...obviously distressed given her, um, temperament."_

_"__As would I. Had that been the only thing...I think it best to assume she had heard enough by that point...Well, let's assume she heard everything, but has yet to reconcile it entirely. In which case, I wouldn't be too quick to rule out some measure of predictable...fallout. I wouldn't be surprised if she approached you in some way, some not altogether obvious Ruth way to take your temperature?"_

_"__Agreed. If so, I'll be as delicate as bone china, Harry. You can trust in that. I've already...when I heard that...Well, suffice to say I've already determined that eventuality, and prepared for it."_

_"__And the rest? I can trust it remains between you and me? Everything that was...spoken about? She confessed some things, as did I. I'll need your word that all of it remains...confidential? If she were to get even a hint that...I really am loathe to think about it, to be honest."_

_"__Absolutely, Harry. I'm loathe that you should feel the need to even ask. We've been at this game too long if you've a mind to believe I'm capable of that measure of indiscretion. If I'm honest, it rather disappoints on both a professional and personal level. Perhaps I shouldn't have said that, but owing to house rules, well, I am a bit disappointed."_

_"__No, that's fine. Understandable, even. And I...its not that I question your loyalty, Malcolm, either to myself, or the service. God knows we've fulfilled our portions of sacrifice to duty. I'm not questioning your...Its...I'm...Best just to have out with it. I'm navigating waters I'd not thought to consider, Malcolm. I'm...The feeling is...Uncertainty. I've relinquished a fair amount of control to another person in the last twenty-four hours, and I'm...Ahhh, the absence is alarmingly keen, I guess you could say. Hanging on tender hooks comes to mind."_

Neither spoke for a time, each meditating the contents of their glasses, and he didn't need to be told the situation before them left Malcolm as ill prepared as he was. He was not unaware that revealing their relationship would be a requirement, he and Ruth's. Far from it, in truth. He simply had failed to account for the speed with which they would be forced to, rather finding a false sense of security in envisioning a manageable period of time prior, there's alone, allowing Ruth the time to gradually acclimate to the eventuality necessary for her to agree. Willingly, that is. Now? Now, he was firmly on the back foot, at cross purposes, his shadow counseling continued subterfuge, his heart screaming for him to come clean with the truth of them the moment he arrived at the Grid, regardless her hesitations or concerns. Neither scenario, in any case, would leave her sweet. Likely, it would mark the end of them should she find out, should she grasp the merest hint that they have been compromised so unexpectedly.

_Two people now_, he mused. Malcolm and Mike. Trusted though they were, it remained two people too many for comfort, for her at least. Malcolm's earlier admission that he'd little idea where the surveillance in Ruth's house was located, or with whom, more importantly, made the feeling of being exposed exponentially keen, festering with the possibility of more than two identifiable persons, his pulse increasing with the mere thought of uncontrollable factors currently unidentified, yet still in play. _Time_, his mind counseled, _you need time._

_"__This Baghdad thing...It might work to our advantage...With Ruth."_

_"__Harry, I can't say that I follow-"_

_"__Just, for argument's sake, bear with me. This Angela thing, it could be useful. She was visibly strained, I don't think you could argue that everyone saw that, yes? So, what's to stop us from...suggesting she's opted a short visit, say to her mother's. To, I don't know, take a breather, collect herself?"_

_"__Apart from the fact that she is estranged from her mother, and the suggestion she's weakened in some way?"_

_"__Right. Fair point. Okay, not her mother's. Maybe, we could float the story she's needed at GCHQ, a seminar, or something, and I've signed her out for the duration. No weakness suggested there. Perfectly explainable absence."_

_"__And we're needing her absent, why?"_

_"__Because she's going to Baghdad. With me."_

_"__Ahhh...With...Okay, but...How does that handle our immediate problem? That is, besides the obvious additional problem of having to develop a legend for her in, well, no time at all, and then telling her, of course, we're still left with the device problem?"_

_"__I'll think of something. Wait...does she know the details of the device? I mean, we could be looking at this the wrong way, Malcolm. Does she even know how it works? The range, the life span?"_

_"__Huh. That is interesting. I hadn't considered...I'm inclined to say it unlikely. I mean, given that its Ruth, it could happen, but still, I think it unlikely. As you say, she was distressed, so possibly she didn't notice much of anything. Which would, of course be ideal. You could just ask for it."_

_"__Or, you could."_

_"__Ahhh, well, yeah, but...I'm afraid I'll give the whole thing away, Harry. Best if you do it."_

_"__You're that certain I won't give it away, are you?"_

_"__No, not exactly. Just that, well, you've more opportunity for distraction, if you take my meaning. I'm not...as familiar...with her, I should say."_

Understanding his meaning was not the problem, uncomfortable as the suggestion was. Not exactly, and if he were honest, he'd admit Malcolm had a point, a valid point, and he allowed himself to nod his agreement, looking away as Malcolm's cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment, the heat coloring his own as he pictured her again with him in the shower.

_"__I'll handle it, then."_

_"__Good. Thank you."_

_"__I suspect this could take several days. Baghdad, that is."_

_"__At least. As to that...for her legend, I'm to make her your...PA?"_

_"__Fine. It works."_

_"__And...I've one room...should I reserve-"_

_"__One is sufficient, I think."_

_"__That will...be noticed...It could-"_

_"__It will be noticed, and appear exactly as intended, Malcolm."_

_"__Okay. Its just, Ruth is...I don't mean to cast aspersions, Harry, but she's proven a bit of a wild card when in the field. And that's within the security of the UK. Are you certain that...Are you certain she's the best choice to accompany you, given your-"_

_"__What? You think I'll veer off piste because we're in Baghdad together? Its a black op, Malcolm. I can assure you, I'll not be losing any threads. Both Adam and Zaf are out. I need Zaf here while Adam recuperates. I'm looking to you to keep everything smooth, and to be my, well, our eyes and ears contact, trusted while we're left to operate despite being gamed, manipulated, lied to, and subject to all manner of subterfuge by any number of willing participants already well established in a game we're only just entering. It simply can't be any other way. Ruth is, however much a magnet for things going tits up, fluent in the language, familiar with the area, skilled with tech babble and the like, and easily blends into her environment. Its effortless, really, the way she does that, and that ability, specifically, is what I will need if I'm to hold any hope for a successful resolution."_

_"__Well, I can't argue the point, so-"_

_"__Just get to work on it, I'll handle the rest."_

_"__Immediately, yes."_

_"__And...as to the...other...thing. She's skittish to a fault, I trust you've had opportunity to notice? Wipe everything, Malcolm. I mean every last bloody bit. Are we clear? I'll not suffer this...with her...getting mucked about in the halls. I'll not risk...losing...her...to that. You understand?"_

_"__Very clear, Harry. There's just one...If I may offer...I know I voiced...concerns...before, about...Well, I think it quite wonderful, really. I just want you...to know...You've my complete support. Both of you, that is."_

_"__That's...Thank you."_

_"__You are most welcome, Harry."_

_"__In the interim, I think...Well, this would be useful in allowing things to settle a bit. The distance between here and there. The number of days. I'll...By the time we return, things should be...a bit more...understood, I think. Likely she'll appreciate the distraction, I'm afraid to say. Best to hope for a timely resolution. To everything, that is. And, of course, plan for the worst. Obviously, best laid plans are not our particular strong suit."_

_"__Man plans, God laughs, as they say."_

_"__Quite comedic, the human race."_

_"__Sadly, yes. Although we do have our virtues. Mired as they are in vice, still there, when the devil drives."_

_"__Much as I enjoy this, Malcolm, I could do with one more drink, and less speaking in bumper stickers."_

_"__Agreed. Shall we bid a fond adieu to our Ivy, then?"_

_"__Perish the thought it in any way avoidable, Malcolm. I shouldn't like to entertain the idea she would close the doors of this overdecorated, garishly opulent dive against us."_

_"__Indeed."_

_"__Gird yourself, she's likely to mention Sarah."_

_"__Saints give me strength."_

True to form, she did, and allowed him a tight hug, the whispered, _Love dis woman_ left to tickle his ear in parting.

As they exited into the sunlight, he deliberately ignored the omen cast as the flame of Saint Jude stood unaccountably extinguished, distracting himself with thoughts of love and Ruth, and the musical birds aloft in the trees above them.

He did not find himself so distracted, however, that he could ignore the Audi.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**A/N: Saint Jude, for those of you unaware, is the Patron Saint of Lost Causes, often given to law enforcement officials in the States, and worn as a charm, frequently by persons involved professionally at great risk to themselves for the assumed duty inherent to protecting the greater whole. It remains a personal favorite of mine, if forced to chose. Danny Thomas also started a children's hospital you may have had occasion to hear about named St. Jude's. Fortunately, that legacy continues, and something for which I donate regularly. Thus concludes this portion of our scheduled Public Service Announcement...**

**A/N2: I couldn't find a time within the proper series in which to drop any twosome in Baghdad, and thus concluded that somewhere before Series Five would have to suffice. I've taken liberties with both cannon and timelines to that effect, and would encourage willing suspensions. Also, RL is primed to be a bit tricky in the forthcoming month's, and thus updates will be less frequent. Nothing to be done about it, and I beg your both patience and continued attentions for the duration. Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, it is the nectar that keeps a writer on task and sated. Additionally, thank you to the three adventuresome enough to favorite this piece. It continues to warm my heart. :) **


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